Of Little Brothers
by BlackBandit111
Summary: A series of oneshots with angst, fluff, and general shenanigans the musketeers manage to get into. Lots of h/c. Mostly bromance; TAKING PROMPTS! Cover Image by Lordandempresssdoodle. Chapter 48: A/N: Please do yourselves a favor- get tea, or coffee, or a glass of water, a little snack, settle down in a comfortable chair, and tuck in. And then just enjoy.
1. Sleight of Hand tag

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	2. Rain May Fall and Wind May Blow

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	3. Infallible Faith in Friends

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	4. The Cold Never Bothered- Well, Actually

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	5. Didn't Want You To Worry

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	6. In Sickness and in Health

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-Ban


	7. The Shining Sun

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	8. Why the Little Things, d'Artagnan?

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	9. Under the Protection of

_Hey guys! Here's another chapter for you all and THANK YOU AGAIN FOR ALL THE FEEDBACK! I swear the reviews help me write faster._

_bearsrawesome: AH! I'm so sorry about that! I'll get it right in the future :)_

_Also, this was suggested by Guest and Sandtalon, who wanted to see teasing Musketeers who were then protective when something happened to d'Artagnan. so here you go!_

* * *

It was a well known fact that d'Artagnan, being only nineteen, was the youngest in their group (as the rest of them were in their late twenties and early thirties). Anyone who lived in Paris and had the pleasure (or the dire misfortune) of encountering the Musketeers was aware of this. It was less well known (though still widely noticed) how close the four had grown over the last year that d'Artagnan had joined them- to onlookers, it seemed almost unnatural for men who had interacted only amongst each other to accept such a fast friend. You were privileged to be privy to the fact that they were fiercely protective of d'Artagnan, so much so that their own ruffian sides faded under concern and quiet watchfulness.

Despite this, only the men at the Garrison truly understood how often they reminded him of his status as youngest brother.

The first time it had happened, it could have been called a reluctant favor. Porthos had come bounding down the stairs from his rooms, looking to be in quite the rush as he called to d'Artagnan, who was sparring. Grinning as his young friend approached, Porthos emptied his arms of the stack of letters he'd been carrying, shrugging them onto d'Artagnan. "I need you to drop these off for me."

D'Artagnan blinked, frowning down at the pile he was currently wrangling. "Uh- it's _your_ mail, Porthos. I have to train." He gestured with his chin to the other Musketeer he'd walked away from, who was calmly standing, waiting for d'Artagnan to return.

Porthos shook his head, slinging an arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "You don't get it, lad," he said, eyes twinkling. "You're the youngest, therefore you do the most work. Off you go now." Brows creasing as he was ushered away from his match, he glared at Porthos as he walked off, grabbing the first letter and reading the address as he went. "Good luck!"

The second time it happened, it could have been called an _actual_ favor. Athos had been in a horrible mood all morning, his gaze more dour than usual as he glared at the other Musketeers about the Garrison, storming to his rooms to finish the latest report. D'Artagnan, concerned, had finished his own work before ascending the stairs and knocking at Athos' bunk door.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, sounding sour. D'Artagnan had the presence of mind to know it wasn't towards him. "What do you need?"

"I was just wondering if you needed anything. A drink, maybe."

"Mm," Athos grunted, rubbing a spot on his forehead where a headache was undoubtedly pounding. "A drink would be preferable, but if you could I would ask you to deliver this report to Treville. He's rather sour today and I don't believe our interaction would go well with both our states of mind." In that moment his older friend looked so drawn that d'Artagnan took pity on him, outstretching a hand for the letter.

"Give it here. I'll take it." He wasn't sure which one of them was worse on these sorts of days, honestly, but Athos looked exhausted. "I'm sure I won't be maimed too horribly."

The third time, however, wasn't remotely in the range of being called a favor (though Aramis so fondly referred to it as such).

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said pleasantly as he approached (and the small smile curling the corners of his lips made d'Artagnan immediately wary), "I need a favor."

Wetting his lips as he slowly set down the sword he was sharpening, he turned and canted his head at Aramis, who looked far too pleased with himself for d'Artagnan's good. Cautiously he responded, "well, I'm not sure how much help I'll be, but what is it?"

Aramis was still smiling that odd little half smile when he replied, the familiar twinkle of mischief in his eye. "I need you to go over there and talk to that woman," he said, pointing out into the street and at a pretty young blonde woman. She had a nice figure and a very pretty face, and immediately d'Artagnan's stomach dropped in dread.

"Why?"

"Does it matter?" Aramis asked, slinging an arm about his shoulders and drawing him close. "Listen, I know you're devoted to Madame Bonacieux," he said and ignored d'Artagnan's glare. "And I'm not asking you to violate that. I just need you to approach that woman and talk with her. Tell her that I'm very sorry and that it won't happen again."

"Sorry for what, Aramis?" D'Artagnan asked, his face falling flat. The next sentence he spoke was phrased as if it were a question, but there was no infliction at the end of it; just resignation. "Is this going to get me slapped?"

"Just go and introduce yourself."

Sighing as he jogged over to the pretty young woman, he attempted to look pleasant as he introduced himself and began to explain what Aramis had asked him to relay- but before he could get past the first few words he was promptly slapped across the face. When he tried to escape she grabbed onto his arm tightly and began lecturing him about allowing Aramis to use other Musketeers to get out of his responsibilities every time he did something remotely rude. It was ages before he managed to pull himself away, livid with his friend and ready to beat the bloody hell out of him-

But when he returned to the Garrison, Aramis was nowhere to be found.

**...**

This cycle continued on for the duration of d'Artagnan's stay in Paris with no end in sight, and despite the fact they were his friends and he was always happy to help them, it began to grate on his nerves. _He_ never asked any of them to do him favors- at least, none that he could just as easily accomplish on his own- and the fact that they seemed to be taking advantage of his kindness was aggravating beyond belief.

He never said anything, though- he _did_ always say yes and they did always seem genuinely thankful in their own ways (even Aramis, though he was never around for the aftermath) so he had never felt indignant for long. Besides- when it came down to it, he was just going to gain from it in the long run when he finally made them all cash in those favors.

Although this thought always lurked at the back of his mind to stop him from doing anything rash, he couldn't help the anger that sweltered under his skin as his cheek began to fiercely burn once more. Clenching his fists as he stomped back to the Garrison, the evening air causing his cheek to sting further, he suddenly stopped short and decided that he didn't want to deal with any of his friends at the moment and, turning on his heel, headed for the nearest tavern instead.

He had never found drinking alone enjoyable- it gave him too much time for his thoughts to fester into demons- but at that moment he couldn't have cared less. Teeth grit as he threw himself into a chair and ordered himself a bottle of wine, he abandoned his responsibilities completely to the alcohol, pouring himself a liberal amount each time he refilled.

It was only after four or five cups that he finally began to feel a semblance of levelheadedness, shaking his head at himself as he estimated what the time was. Swaying slightly as he stood, he paid for the bottle and grabbed it on his way out, ducking his head and ignoring the insistent throbbing of his eye in the cool night air. It was going to bruise, but d'Artagnan didn't particularly care at the moment. He'd have time to be ashamed in the morning. As it was, he was struggling to figure out which way the Bonacieux house was in the dark too much to truly think on it.

So focused on finding home, he didn't see the fist until it was too late, grunting as it clipped him in the face with enough force to send him to the ground. Struggling to regain his footing and barely dodging a kick to the nose (which caught him in the jaw instead) he scrambled to his feet and threw his own punch, just this side of sloppy enough to miss. Adrenaline flushing through his veins as he narrowed his eyes at the dark, he clenched his aching jaw and growled, trying to gauge where his attacker was standing.

"Look 'a tha'- can't even manage a blow!" Someone crowed, and two or three voices burst into laughter. Throwing his body weight abruptly to the left, the breath was knocked out of him as he collided with a very large, very solid body, expecting to be stopped against a wall and slamming into the ground instead. An alley- the attacker had been standing at the entrance of an alleyway. That had been one of the reasons d'Artagnan hadn't sensed them there.

Rolling to his feet and bringing his fists up, he swung out and missed yet again, the laughter ringing too loud in his wine-addled ears. "Look, look," another man cackled, "now I know why they call 'im a pup!"

"A runt!"

Another fist came barreling towards his face out of nowhere, catching him in the mouth and shoving his bottom lip back against his teeth, slitting it open. Blood flooding his mouth and leaving a metallic taste in its wake, d'Artagnan spit, his contained anger crashing back over him in an unstoppable and dangerously powerful wave as it electrified his blood. "Stop fighting me like a coward, then, and come out of the shadows," he snarled.

"Oi," someone growled, and d'Artagnan skirt out of reach as they attempted to seize him by his collar. "Oi! Jean, grab 'im, will ya?!"

Twisting out of another man's (presumably Jean's) grip, d'Artagnan turned and struck the man in the nose, hearing a satisfying and painful sounding crack as it was broken. Crying out in pain as he doubled over, Jean grunted, "Oi Maynard, though' ya said the boy was a runt! 'E's fast as hell!" Dodging yet another fist and quickly avoiding a kick, d'Artagnan spun-

Someone's leg was already waiting there and d'Artagnan was tripped up, gritting his teeth as he sprawled over the cobble and scraped his palms. Immediately an onslaught of kicking began as two men seized his arms and legs and pulled him out of his curled position, exposing his abdomen to the blows that were strong enough to knock his breath away. Coughing as another vicious boot slammed down on his ribs, he attempted to kick out and nearly caught the one holding him in the face.

Someone's boot slammed down on the side of his face, making the other side knock the ground. His ears ringing as pain lanced through his body, he grunted, barely able to acknowledge the snarled, "and tha' one's for my nose, boy!"

They beat him until he was bloody and he didn't know which was way was up, beat him until his was dizzy and gagging on his own breath, beat him until he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't anymore. Rough hands clasped him about the upper arms, pulling him harshly closer to stale breath and jagged voices. "The only reason they keep you around, boy," someone breathed, their lips brushing the shell of his ear and giving him a chill like he'd never known, "is so you can run their errands."

Another swift kick had him exhaling shakily, and the man holding him shook with silent laughter. "You're useless. A burden. No one wants you. _They_ don't want you, if that's what you've been thinking. They've _never_ wanted you." It was said in such a plain, matter-of-fact way d'Artagnan almost found himself believing it.

Yanked to his feet, he stumbled and fell to his knees, scraping them on the cobble and sagging as someone began to drag him forward. "No one cares about you," the same man growled, snarling as he lost his grip and instead grabbing d'Artagnan by his hair. Yelping when they began to pull him by it, he tried to raise his arms to claw at the man- Maynard- but his arms only jerked weakly, his energy too sapped for him to move. "Ha! Runt indeed," Maynard murmured. From behind the other men chuckled darkly. D'Artagnan hadn't known they were following.

"No," Maynard said lowly, a dangerous edge to his voice, "the only place that you deserve to be is at the bottom of the Seine."

_The bottom of the Seine._

They were- they were going to kill him.

Strength suddenly surging back into his limbs, d'Artagnan yelled out and began twisting, ignoring the burn of his hair being pulled as he kicked out. One of the men shouted in pain as d'Artagnan caught him in the knee, the others rushing forward to help Maynard as he lost his grip yet again- but d'Artagnan was rolling, rolling, trying desperately to stagger to his feet as shouts erupted from behind him as Maynard's men gave chase-

"What do you think you're doing?"

The achingly familiar voice made d'Artagnan pause, shaking with relief as he was helped up by gentle hands.

"What do you think you're doing?" Athos repeated, voice laced with dangerous calm. His hand quite obviously rest over the handle of his sword.

"We- we were jus' leavin'," Maynard managed, swallowing.

Athos' eyes were cold, and when he smiled, it was jagged and wolfish. His voice was quiet with deadly assurance. "If ever I see you again, you won't live to regret it."

Maynard opened and closed his mouth a few times, a little more visible in the light of the moon. Then, sneering, he turned on his heel and grabbed Jean- whose nose was still bloodied and bleeding- and the four men made their way back down the street, grumbling.

"Come," Athos murmured, and d'Artagnan felt his warmth close. "My apartments are closest."

Doing his best to stay silent as they began walking, he bit his lip as he tried not to acknowledge the various aches in his body, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be supported by his two friends, reassured by Athos' presence close by. "Wha' happened?" Porthos muttered, shifting his hold on d'Artagnan a little.

"Went drinking," d'Artagnan said around a swollen lip. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, shame was quickly replacing it. "Was attacked."

"Why did you go drinkin'?"

"What, I can't go drinking now without it being a favor?"

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them.

They were silent the rest of the way to the apartment, getting inside and laying d'Artagnan out gently on Athos' bed. Finally lying on something semi-comfortable brought every hurt back to life. The bed dipped as Aramis sat beside him, gently taking his hand and turning it over so his palm was displayed. Aramis pulled out a bandage and wrapped it around his fingers, doing the same for the other injured hand. Then he tended to d'Artagnan's knees the same way, nimble fingers and soft touches.

"It'll be sore for a few days," Aramis said after inspecting d'Artagnan's lip, "but it'll heal. Your ribs are only bruised, luckily, so you should only take a little while to heal. I don't even have to wrap them. Same for your abdomen- it'll be sore, but you'll live." D'Artagnan looked up for the first time that night and nodded, preparing to get up, but Aramis put a hand on his shoulder and tender fingers skimmed over the skin on his cheek. "Did they hit you open handed?"

D'Artagnan smiled without mirth. "No," he said. "That was your favor."

Aramis pursed his lips and was silent for a while. "Both sides of your forehead are bruised," he said quietly. "Did they step on you?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said. Aramis gave him a look but didn't say anything, instead packing away his supplies and rocking back into the chair. "I should go," d'Artagnan continued, making as if to rise- only to be pushed back down by Porthos.

"I don' think so. You can barely stand, let alone make it back to Bonacieux's in the dark."

His lips twisted as d'Artagnan refused to admit Porthos was right. "Nevertheless, I should-"

"Christ, d'Artagnan, for once in your life don't argue with us," Athos said tiredly, running a hand over his face as he raised his goblet and took a sip. Scowling, d'Artagnan glared at him, but Athos seemed wholly unperturbed and even slightly amused at it. It faded as fast as it had come due to the dire expression that descended over Athos' face, though. He said nothing; instead, he gave d'Artagnan a pointed look and took another sip, and that alone was enough to prompt him into speaking.

"I went to the tavern for a drink. Bought a bottle." He hadn't realized he'd lost it in the fight and his heart sank- it was still half full, and he'd paid good money for it. "Lost it when I was jumped. They came out of nowhere, and I don't know why they attacked me."

He actually had a pretty good idea as to why- after all, men could work for years to get close to the three best Musketeers and he'd done it in three months. Never mind the fact that Treville was allowing him to go on missions with them when technically he was still a civilian (and therefore a liability) and, despite not being paid, the Garrison provided food for him more than once. He could imagine why some would be jealous or uncomfortable- but they hadn't been Musketeers else d'Artagnan would have recognized them.

"They were Red Guards," Aramis explained, sighing as he removed his hat from his head to brush back some hair.

"That makes sense," d'Artagnan said, and Porthos gave him a look. "The Red Guards hate you more than anyone."

"Thank you d'Artagnan," Porthos said. "That's so reassuring."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and his headache spiked. "I mean that because they see me running your errands they think that I'm important, or at least involved in your affairs. So it makes sense they'd target me hoping I'd have information on you."

"From a strategical standpoint that's very likely," Aramis agreed. "But you've forgotten, d'Artagnan, that you're also our friend. They'd use that above all else. That's the most important."

His mouth was suddenly very dry.

"Surely you know that, don't you?"

Licking his swollen lip and wincing as he brushed across the cut, he hesitated before he answered. "Of course. I know that."

Athos' eyes were too knowing when d'Artagnan accidentally met them, and everything that went unspoken between them was communicated. All at once, d'Artagnan's anger and bitterness vanished, replaced by something warm and comforted. They were his friends. He knew. He knew.

"I need to get to Bonacieux's," d'Artagnan said finally. "Constance will be concerned and she's alone in the house. I don't want her to feel vulnerable."

"She'll certainly manage for one night," Aramis said, a gentle smirk on his features. "Unless-"

"Don't," d'Artagnan told him, grimacing as he moved. "Come on. I can't stay here."

They stood him up after a time, d'Artagnan wobbly on his feet, and guided him back to Bonacieux's where, as predicted, Constance was waiting and worried sick. At one look to her lodger she banished him to his room and drew up a bowl of soup, staring at the three Musketeers standing in the doorway, awkwardly shuffling. "He'll be fine," she said. "I'll watch over him."

"He's a stubborn thing," Porthos said, and a bittersweet smile crossed Constance's face.

"That he is."

Athos ducked his head, his lips curling ever so slightly at the corners. "Now if you'll excuse us, Madame, we have some Red Guards to pay visits to."

* * *

_Alright y'all! Thank for you reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment!_


	10. Venom in the Veins

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	11. The Same Kind of Innocence

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	12. Show You Something

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	13. Hat Trick!

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	14. Snap

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	15. It Started Out Small

_Hey all! I literally can't thank you all enough for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. Good to see old faces and happy to see new ones :) Welcome to the club._

_So I've sort of fallen off the 8 ball halfway through this chapter- it was there, and then...it wasn't. I'm still happy with it all the same and it is MIGRAINED d'Artagnan, suggested by fariedragon!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The day wasn't unlike any other day. It wasn't hot orcold nor wet or sunny; it was one of those bleak and rather boring cloudy days, where the sky was grey and the air only a little humid and the breeze slightly chillier than normal. There had been absolutely nothing to bring it on, only the plain stretch of dirt road in front of him and the speckled trees on either side. It was autumn and the leaves were just changing, the green of the leaves fading into spectacular shades of red, orange and yellow, the tips just crinkling enough to make small crackling sounds when stepped on.

And there was a dull throbbing in the back of his head.

Now, d'Artagnan had learned his lesson to tell the Musketeers if he was feeling ill, but really, it was only a headache. It wasn't as though he was throwing up- but now that he was thinking about it, his stomach was rolling a little ominously.

Sighing and figuring he wouldn't burden his friends with the small cold he'd no doubt managed to contract (seeing as the day was almost over, and the garrison was only just beginning to clear out and he was still training with them). It had been a good day, and for it to end on a sour note would be disappointing. He figured he'd just take care of it when he returned to Bonacieux's.

He admitted freely, however, that each clang of a sword shot through his head like a bullet, and every clack of a boot against the pavement was like signing his own death sentence. But he grit his teeth and trained onwards, determined to master the move he'd been having trouble with all morning, Athos drilling him hard- _step, block, parry, step, step, slice, parry._

And it came upon him so suddenly that he felt dizzy and nauseous and he was doubling over and clutching his stomach and white light filled his vision, blinding him as red hot pokers sliced through his eyes and straight into his skull. He heard Athos' dull shout of surprise and then worry, then the clatter of swords hitting pavement as Athos ran to him; the pounding in his head grew worse _(how, how was that even possible, how could that even happen?!)_ and he retched again, miserably and on his hands and knees, trying his best to stay upright.

Screwing his face up in an attempt to ward off the pain pounding behind his eyes, he felt Athos grab him softly about the shoulders and guide him to his feet. The world swayed dangerously and d'Artagnan once again sank to his knees, moaning and clutching at his head. Another sharp shout from Athos which caused a flare of pain, then sudden quiet.

Breathing a small sigh of relief as his headache dulled back to a level of agony that he could manage, d'Artagnan struggled to his feet, feeling Athos softly guide him forward, arms on his shoulders. He felt a hat plop over his head, sliding down to the bridge of his nose and effectively covering his eyes, so if he opened them, they were shaded.

It didn't matter. He trusted Athos to lead him faithfully.

He hadn't realized Athos was murmuring sweet nothings in his ear until his mentor fell silent, and the click of a door then the replacing of hands was the only clue d'Artagnan had that they were in someone's apartments.

"What happened?" Aramis' alarmed voice came, and it was like a siren in d'Artagnan's brain. He gasped out and scrunched up his face, hearing only the tail end of murmurs from Athos to Aramis before another set of hands- _smoother; spindly fingers grasped his upper arms-_ guide him over and sit him down on the side of the bed.

"Alright," he was whispering (whispering wasn't right; it must have been barely a breath, but to d'Artagnan everything was a scream), "alright, d'Artagnan. It will be better soon. Sh..."

And then he became aware that he was making inadvertent little grunts, and he, embarrassed, clamped his jaws shut, but this only caused him further pain. "It's alright, d'Artagnan." Aramis. "Let it out. Don't clench your jaw- it will only make it worse. Relax your face and do not panic."

D'Artagnan did as told, the lights flashing behind his (when did he close them?) lids with every breath he took, and he felt someone gently lay him horizontally and pull a light blanket up to his shoulders. "Shh...It's alright."

Two fingers against each of his temples began rubbing in soft circles, but d'Artagnan flinched away from the touch; it ignited agony, but again Aramis said patiently, "it's alright, d'Artagnan...sh...It's alright. It will be better soon. Just hang on…"

A cool cloth was laid over his eyes, soft fingers combing through his hair. Against the pain, his body began to automatically relax, years and years of ingrained reactions going to work. The white hot spikes once again dulled down to a manageable roar as the fingers at his temples soothed away the ache, and he gave a sigh, sagging further into the pillows.

"Alright lad. You're alright." Ah. So the massaging fingers belonged to Porthos.

"What happened, d'Artagnan?" Everyone was whispering so low, he was sure, but it truly was like ringing bells through his brain and he couldn't contain a small wince. Another sigh. "Sorry."

Time was immeasurable, only the fingers running through his hair and rubbing at his head and Aramis' soft strokes of his thumbs across the back of d'Artagnan's hand giving him any indication. He was no longer feeling quite so nauseated and figured that because the roar had finally diminished to an ignorable thrum, he could open his eyes.

There was a single candle lit on the opposite side of the room, the whole apartment bathed in darkness. D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of what he realized was relief- if there had been bright lights (too bright like before, like the flashes he'd gotten) he didn't know what he would've done.

"Alright now?" Aramis asked kindly, and d'Artagnan nodded, his eyes glued to his wringing hands in his lap.

He cleared his throat and said quietly, "it was the barest hint of a headache at first. It happened very suddenly."

Another odd little exhale of breath as Athos ran a hand over his face. "I don't care if it's a hangnail," he said with conviction, making d'Artagnan lower his head further. "You will tell us. Don't make me inspect you everyday, d'Artagnan. I will do so."

His head shot up, and an indignant growl erupted from his throat. "You wouldn't."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Did I stutter?"

Pursing his lips and deciding that his pride wasn't worth the scolding he'd receive if he did respond, d'Artagnan shook his head. He sensed more than saw Porthos smile as a gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"You're one of us," he said softly. "And we watch out for our brothers; especially the little ones."

And, well. He supposed the day hadn't been that bad after all.

* * *

_Legoelf: I think Athos is really a softie, maternal sort of big brother at heart. The one who will Gibbs-slap you when you're being an idiot but will kiss your scrapes when you get 'em. Yeah I can definitely tell you were happy- how much sugar did you have before that review? :) Don't pester too many; the bunnies might get tired._

_TinkerBella7: I KNOW RIGHT ATHOS WOULD DEFINITELY KILL THEM IF HE FOUND THEM- OH THANK YOU IDEA_

**_EVERYONE PAUSE A MOMENT TO READ THIS_**

_...how would we feel about just this huge annual musketeers' hide and seek tournament? Like, everyone has to hide somewhere around like, a clearing they gather and people have to take turns tracking and finding others, and those who can't find the hiders lose? HAHA I'm writing it- THANK YOU TINKERBELLA7_

_Becimpala33: Good, I'm glad. I didn't want them to seem like awesome friends because, let's face it, they sort of suck on the friend meter, almost forcing him to jump off a horse for twelve livres..._

_CandyCakes: Nah, they won't be dominating the story. I'll just bring 'em in when our young friend needs some hey-look-I-also-know-other-musketeers-and-they're-my-age time. :)_

_Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts! As always, I love suggestions!_


	16. Wonderful Mistake

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	17. Stabbed in the Back

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	18. Shot in the Heart Part I- Leap

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	19. On Your Feet, Soldier

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	20. Shot in the Heart Pt II- Jump

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	21. The Tricks of the Trade

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	22. Shot in the Heart Part III- Launch

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	23. Working With Children

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	24. So Done With This Week

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	25. Tabs

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	26. I'll Be Home for Christmas

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	27. Acting Skills- Eh

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	28. The Mick of Them

Alright, this is called: let's go back and edit these first chapters when I didn't know what I was doing! I thank you for your patience and advise you to skip to chapter 9, then to chapter 29 (then and onwards is better-quality content). Thanks again!

-Ban


	29. A Howling Soul

_Hey everybody! So Musketeers premieres tonight and I AM SO EXCITED! **I am officially accepting S2 E1 prompts now, but ONLY S2 E1. **I still haven't seen the others yet, after all. Anyways this is actually just something that kept bugging me and wouldn't leave me alone, so enjoy! _

_**Warning:** werewolf AU. Don't like don't read!_

* * *

Desperation.

It was such an acrid scent that filled his nose. Made it twitch.

He hated it.

Something inside him- something primal and aching and ingrained into his soul- tugged him to the left, so he spun quickly and intercepted Athos' path, trusting he and Porthos to follow.

His gut led the three of them down a lane or two, a few blocks and then a street that took a left, and the full moon was shaded with the clouds that passed over it. The clouds themselves were dark and the air began to grow static-y. It smelled distinctly like rain, and though Porthos made a small noise at him from behind, he didn't ask to stop.

They all hated the rain- especially Aramis because it matted his hair- but he wasn't willing to stop because of some storm when his gut was so full of instinctual guidance.

The stench grew into something- maybe _hopelessness- _and Aramis felt that Athos and Porthos could now sense it too. It was a nose wrinkling smell that was full of something deep and despairing, and Aramis was disgusted that some others may get excited by scents as such. To him, it smelled _wrong_.

Mostly, it smelled like _omega in distress._

The smells of rain and dirt and sleet and gravel and Athos and Porthos and _pack _almost blocked out everything else, but Aramis trusted his nose and let it guide him through the streets in the dark, paws padding against the ground and getting stuck to the growing puddles of mud and water on the cobblestones. Porthos barked- '_Mis, where are we going?- _but Aramis didn't answer, sticking his snout high and refusing to acknowledge he'd said anything at all.

Porthos grumbled something and yipped at him, but settled down after he realized his friend wouldn't provide any answers.

Aramis followed his nose and finally came to a stop at the entrance to a very dark alley, only darkened from the lack of light from the moon- and Athos growled something- '_Mis, don't do this- _but he ignored it as he entered, head canted to the side as he experimentally sniffed.

The scent changed immediately as the sound echoed down the alley- something that morphed from hopeless despondency to pure and unadulterated terror, and though he knew that the presence of one alpha around a (likely vulnerable) omega would heighten the situation, not to mention the presence of three.

It was rare for alphas to form groups, mostly due to power plays and inner struggles, but they had been bonded through more than groups or brotherhood- they were pack. They had been through thick and thin together, escaped (quite literally) by the _scruffs _of their necks, and made it home for dinner the same night.

It was both unnerving and reassuring, and none of them seemed quite sure what to make of it.

The omega was in a bad way. His body was awkwardly twisted on the ground, his hind legs having given out on him. Aramis could smell the metallic ting of blood amidst the curdling of terror, but his keen eyes couldn't pick up any bloodstains. The whole omega's coat was matted down and soaking wet from the rain that had started to fall, riddled with layers of dirt and grime.

Aramis whined softly, and the omega let out a yip of warning, his hackles rising- it was too high pitched, though, and sounded frightened. Aramis dared and took a step, lowering his head in a clear sign of submission. _I won't hurt you._

Instead of a yip this time it was a growl, something fierce and low and could have made Aramis take a step back were he not such a strong alpha. This omega was injured, however, and didn't have a chance should they end up in a fight, but was clearly dazed and terribly hurt, and Aramis couldn't just walk away and allow some stupid alpha the opportunity to come and-

He whined again, softer, belly almost touching the ground with how low he stooped.

The returning snarl was lower somehow, something far more dangerous than what it seemed**\- **_**don't come near me or there will be consequences-**_ and Aramis yipped, acquiescing, and returned to Athos' and Porthos' sides.

Porthos grunted something at him which Aramis chose to ignore. He needed to find a way to help this poor omega- he simply wasn't willing to let him lie here and die, or be claimed by someone far less inviting than they. They wouldn't hurt him or make him do things like some alphas might do to other omegas- they would allow him freedom and protection, Aramis knew, and could sense the nature already rising in his friends.

Athos' brother had been omega, if Aramis remembered correctly.

Sucking in a breath and gently whining to let the omega know he meant no harm, Aramis trotted slowly forward until he was cloaked in darkness again, and could only barely see a pair of eyes glinting at him. There was another vicious snarl- _**LEAVE ME ALONE!- **_but Aramis ignored it, and told the other wolf so through a small grunt. The snarls only grew in intensity, long, dagger-like teeth glinting in the nonexistent light as the omega pulled his lips back.

_**Leave me alone or I swear by the Moon I will tear your limbs off rip your heart out break your skull with my teeth-**_

Aramis whinnied, and the omega fell silent, listening. Those bright eyes narrowed.

Aramis made another soft chuffing noise, getting low to the ground and making sure he appeared the least intimidating as possible. He didn't want to undo any of the progress he'd managed in the last five minutes.

He yipped- _I promise, I'm here to help- _and, although he reeked of wariness and danger, the omega quieted slightly, head to the side and one ear cocked up. It made Aramis huff in amusement; the position was pup-like in its guilelessness.

And once Aramis was close enough for a good look, he realized the omega _was _little more than a pup; he was smaller than even a full grown omega (which, by nature, were smaller than alphas and slimmer than betas) but this omega was slender. His very bones were tiny. He wasn't unfit- there was a fair bit of muscle rippling underneath his coat, Aramis could see- but he was also malnourished.

The smell of terror receded a little more, and ingrained deep in the actual scent of this omega was _alpha_, something lingering but no longer truly present, something loving and parental and pure.

This omega truly wasn't more than a pup, Aramis thought to himself, his heart aching for the poor, curled up creature. The scent of a lost alpha father was still clinging to him.

The omega growled slightly when he got too close, nose scrunching dangerously, and Aramis backed off a little, barking.

_My friends and I are here to help- let us get you out of this rain. You're injured._

The omega barked another warning at him, but this was considerably less severe. Aramis snuffled a bit in amusement again and canted his head, his ears cocked.

The omega grunted softly and tried to rise- stood on shaking legs and aching paws- before easily himself back down with a small whine, licking the pads of his front right paw and shaking his head of the rain that collected in his ears.

Aramis' heart plummeted. Pad injuries hurt and often made it difficult to walk.

His heart sank further when he saw the young omega bite at his other as though a cut was itching him.

Aramis trotted back to Athos and Porthos and gave a bark. Athos growled at him- _why not leave him here if he's so injured? He'll likely die anyway._

Aramis snarked something back- something he couldn't really catch himself- before going back to the omega's side, who barked softly at him when he neared. Aramis pulled his ears back and consciously went to make himself smaller again for the omega's benefit, and he seemed to appreciate it, if the improvement of just a low rumble of barely-a-growl was anything to go by.

Aramis approached all the way and sidled up next to the injured omega, who was shivering, lending him some body heat. The warning growl was louder and lower this time, but Aramis ignored it and put his head on his crossed paws, ears back and in perhaps the most vulnerable position he could manage at the moment.

The omega growled, hackles flaring.

Aramis closed his eyes and tipped his head to the ground.

The omega paused, huffing in annoyance after a moment, but nonetheless his shivers began to abate slightly. Pleased, Aramis leaned up and licked the side of the omega's neck.

The omega's ears, from where they'd been positively plastered to his head, tentatively came forwards, and Aramis gave his neck another gentle lick. The taste of copper sat heavily on his tongue, and Aramis wondered if this was the site of a wound, or just spreading blood from others.

The omega chattered at him, tucking against his side further as his ears relaxed more. Maybe he'd sensed that Aramis was not going to harm him or maybe he was too exhausted to care, but Aramis gave his ears a lick to let the omega know that he truly didn't want to hurt him.

The omega huffed at him- _why are you so insistent? _he seemed to ask- and Aramis chittered back at him, something along the lines of: _Because I'm charming._

They lay there in the pouring rain for an immeasurable amount of time, Aramis waiting for the omega to say something about the scents of other alphas- Porthos and Athos- that were drifting by. All he did was experimentally sniff the air then sniff Aramis' neck and settle, looking up at Aramis with big brown eyes that seemed to trust him for some reason.

Aramis barked gently- _come with us- we won't hurt you, and you're injured and cold- _and the omega, too tired to debate or perhaps more trusting than Aramis had first thought, growled softly back.

_If I find that you are deceiving me, I will not hesitate to kill you._

This omega had spine, Aramis thought to himself- not many omegas would be willing to challenge an alpha like that. This wolf was _daring_. This wolf was meant to be an alpha, even though his bones were tiny and his scent was omega.

_Deal, _Aramis agreed, getting to his feet and giving one last lick to the omega's ears.

The omega took a deep breath and began struggling to his feet, grunting softly as his injured legs and pads slipped slightly on the wet dirt. His limbs were shaking too terribly from him to truly rise, so Aramis gently grasped the scruff of his neck in his teeth and helped support him, pulling him the rest of the way to his feet.

The omega growled softly a few moments later, and Aramis realized he hadn't yet let go.

They walked flush to each other, Aramis nudging the poor omega up when he swayed, and the smell of reluctance and dread began to grow as they headed closer to the entrance to the alley. Athos' and Porthos' smells grew stronger- and so did the omega's distress.

Aramis whined softly, and the omega's hackles, from where they'd been rising, deflated a little.

Porthos yipped at him- _hey, whelp-_ and the omega snarled at him, Aramis forcing himself between the two and snarling his own at Porthos. Porthos blinked, puzzled- _I'm only joking, 'Mis-_ and Aramis canted his head in the direction of the omega.

_He doesn't know that._

Porthos huffed but didn't respond, instead sidling up to the omega's other side, prompting another growl. Porthos looked at Aramis, baffled as the omega bared his fangs, and Aramis whined again.

Porthos himself whined too and flattened his ears.

The omega chattered at Aramis worriedly, and Aramis licked the top of his head. Satisfied, the omega stopped snarling, but a continuous low rumble emerged from his throat, eyes flashing with warning.

With the omega protectively sandwiched between them, Aramis and Porthos began making their way home, abandoning their midnight walk in favor of the warm hearth waiting for them. Athos followed at at a sedated pace, his scent threatening, and Aramis knew he was warning other alphas that may smell _timid, injured omega_ that this wolf was _off limits._

The poor omega stumbled a few times, unable to keep his feet, but with Porthos' teeth locked around the scruff of his neck and Aramis' steady one under his chin, he managed to continue on, finally whimpering softly with each staggering step he took.

Athos pushed open the door with a paw, using his nose to lift the latch, and they guided the young omega inside as Athos closed the door against the chill of the wind. The omega immediately panicked, his eyes darting around as he snarled and writhed in their grip- he'd probably heard horror stories about omegas being trapped by malicious alphas after being taken to their home, and Aramis removed his support just long enough to give the omega's muzzle a lick of reassurance.

Porthos readjusted his grip on the omega's scruff, and in a display of unadulterated strength lifted the smaller wolf clear off the ground, holding him like a mother would a pup.

The reaction was immediate as the omega growled at the position, something along the lines of _who the hell do you think you are? __**Put me down- **_but his tail tucked between his legs and his struggles died down slightly. Porthos refused, carrying him the rest of the way inside and out of the hall, releasing him gently on the couch. As soon as he was let go the omega shot off, barking and snarling and backing into a corner, hackles raised and teeth bared.

Athos sighed, huffing at Aramis. _Well now that you've successfully abducted him, now what?_

Aramis chattered at him in response and approached the shivering, terrified omega, who yipped something at him that he couldn't catch. Aramis inched up next to him again after shaking out his fur, lending some body heat- _we won't hurt you, it's alright I promise-_

It took several coaxes and prods from Aramis to get the omega moving out of the corner, a warning growl still vibrating in his chest, and towards the merrily crackling fire they'd made before setting out that was still burning brightly.

Now that the rain had washed away some of the dirt and mud, Aramis could clearly see the coat that lay beneath the grime. It was a dark and rich color of brown, little golden highlights weaved throughout the layers of fur, giving him a distinctly bronze color. It was very handsome, Aramis admitted freely, and rivaled that of alpha coats.

The omega settled down by the fire, finally relaxing enough to take the weight off of his pads and legs and slumping to the floor, licking his paws. He seemed determined to ignore Porthos' and Athos' presence and instead focused on cleaning the dirt from between his toes, biting harshly at whatever itchy scabs had formed on any cuts on his pads and diligently beginning to clean his coat, shaking his head of water. His ears flapped wetly.

Aramis settled down next to him, supporting his back, and once the omega was done tending to these simple needs he lay his head on his paws and leaned against Aramis, closing his eyes and letting out a huge breath. Aramis simply gave him another lick on the head again.

The omega's eyes opened when prodded and peered around at his surroundings curiously, head canted to the side. He seemed completely at ease with Aramis at his side- perhaps because he'd been the one to find him, or maybe because he'd been the kindest, but he eyed Porthos warily and Athos not at all.

Porthos finally gave a huff and approached, the scent of the omega's wariness seeping into the air. Porthos chuffed at him and settled down against his other side, growling when the omega tried to snap at him.

_You're in __**my house**__. I won't hurt you, but you __**will not **__threaten me as such._

The omega grumbled but settled back down, and Porthos moved so that his head was resting on the omega's back, close to where Aramis' was lying.

Athos had been quiet for the majority of the time now, but he finally gave a small bark. _Are you serious?_

Aramis and Porthos just stared at him, feeling the peaceful breathing of the sleepy omega below them.

Athos seemed to snicker slightly at their appearance before curling up as close to the omega as he dared, by his tail, placing his head atop the omega's back also. The omega only shifted so that his hind legs wouldn't be crushed, drowsily uttering a small, confused yelp.

Athos barked softly and the omega settled back down with a small, gentle howl, something mournful even though it was groggy, and again let his head fall against his paws as he leaned further into Aramis.

Aramis decided that a pack for the night was the best they could do for the omega at the moment, resolved to check his injuries tomorrow, and closed his eyes.

**...**

He woke to a confused shout.

Opening his eyes and blinking the sleep from them, he sighed and stretched, his blood freezing in his veins when he heard Athos shout. "Would you just calm down!"

"Calm down?!"

Aramis sprang to his feet and hurried to the hall, where he found Porthos blocking the door forcefully, Athos in an annoyed huff, and…

_Oh yes_, he finally remembered. The omega.

He was not quite so little as a human. His bones were still tiny, but he wasn't much littler than Aramis himself- maybe half a head shorter, a couple sizes smaller. His skin was a dark olive color and he had loose fitting trousers on and a baggy shirt, the same as Athos and Porthos.

Self consciously, he reached for the drawer where they always kept spare clothing and pulled on some trousers and a shirt, swallowing his awkwardness and clearing his throat.

The omega spun so fast Aramis winced at the pain undoubtedly in his neck, finding himself face to face with a young man- maybe _nineteen- _with dark hair and big brown eyes. They were narrowed, but Aramis thought he could see a faint weaving of gold in his irises. It made him smile.

"Where am I?!" The omega snarled, brandishing a small dagger that Aramis was troubled he had. He glanced at Athos, who shrugged.

"He is demanding to be released," Athos said dryly, and the omega openly hissed at him.

"It's alright," Aramis soothed. "Don't you remember me? I'm Aramis, the alpha that f-"

"That's quite clear, thanks," the omega interceded, nostrils flaring as his eyes narrowed further.

"And I'm the one who found you last night," Aramis finished. The omega's head canted to the side, and Aramis could almost imagine the same expression on his wolf-side the night before, with an ear cocked.

"What do you mean?" He asked, suspicion strong in his tone.

"You don't remember? We found you in an alley and guided you here. Your pads and legs were injured. I'm trained in medicine- I thought I might help you. Can I see your hands?"

The omega self consciously drew both his raw, stripped wrists and hands in towards him, the dagger still brandished threateningly. "How am I to know you're telling the truth?"

"You tell me," Aramis said calmly. "Do we smell threatening? Do we smell bad intentioned?"

The omega's nose twitched a few times. His eyes became mere slits in thought.

Aramis waited.

The omega lowered his dagger, but tucked it into his side pocket. _I will use it if I have to._

Aramis smiled at him, and Porthos stepped away from the door. Aramis gently held out his hands for the omega to show him his wrists, and he did so, exposing hurt and rubbed raw skin. Aramis hissed in sympathy. "I'm just going to wrap them," he assured as he gently wound bandages around them so they couldn't be cut up or aggravated any further, and the omega flashed him a smile.

"Now that that's settled," said Porthos, "would you like breakfast?"

The omega's stomach gurgled, and for the first time, the omega's cheeks grew rosy with a blush as he nodded. Aramis sent Porthos a grateful look over the omega's head.

"Now then," he said. "I know you're still cautious of us, but I can sm...Where's your pack?"

The omega paled and his eyes flickered to the floor. He looked slightly ill.

Aramis exchanged looks with Athos and Porthos.

"Right then," Athos said, gently clapping their new friend on the back. They'd all lost their own first packs- unfortunately it seemed to be a way of life, and a piece of your soul that you could never get back- but Athos and his omega brother had been incredibly close, and Aramis supposed that it was different than his lost beta and child. "What's your name?"

"D'Artagnan," the omega said. It seemed suiting, Aramis thought to himself.

Athos smiled with his eyes. "Right then, d'Artagnan. I'm Athos, the big one is Porthos, and the fair maiden over there is Aramis."

D'Artagnan's eyes began to dance when Aramis rebuked Athos sharply, telling him something along the lines of, "just because one actually gives a damn about appearing socially acceptable doesn't make them feminine", and Porthos decided he should just stay out of the argument altogether.

And as they sat around the dining table, breakfast in front of them and companionship in the air, Aramis thought he could quite smell _pack _forming on d'Artagnan.

And by the looks on Athos' and Porthos' faces, they could, too.

* * *

_Ihni: Me too! I suppose Milady was just so absorbed in her hatred for Athos that she didn't question when d'Artagnan's arose, thinking that he felt betrayed too? I'm not sure...I would certainly just turn around and go back to bed. I wouldn't want to have to deal with that. Thank you! A similar banter ensued between me and a friend later that day._

_The Phantom Dragon: I'm glad "I'm bored' so amused you! I tried my very best with this banter._

_bearsrawesome: Thank you! I appreciate it. I haven't seen S2 yet (PREMIERING TONIGHT!) So I'm hopeful about that! _

_BerserkerHellHound: Thank you so much! I really appreciate it. Thanks for your review and I hope you enjoy the chapters to come!_

_Legoelf: LOL okay! I think your spider one will be coming up soon because I had this dream the other night about it and it won't go away, so :) I love that suggestion! Nah, gimme all the plot bunnies! I like 'em all!_

_Tidia: Thank you! _

_Guest: That's very sweet of you to say, thank you so much!_

_valentinejabbotte: Thank you! I do have a d'Artagnan/saving/children chapter already suggested, but thank you for your suggestion too! I'll be sure to add you to the list when it comes out. If you have any more ideas please let me know! Let me just tell you currently I have 51 suggestions. It could take a bit, but it will be done!_

_watlocked: That's an awesome suggestion and I'm so happy you've been enjoying these! Thank you for both the suggestion and the review!_

_Everyone give a warm welcome to RowanaRenee! **CLAPS** RowanaRenee: Thank you for all your reviews and suggestions! I answered this privately because it was a first reivew from you, but from now on my response will be here. So thanks again for all your suggestions and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_

**_Another special thanks to MissLib93 for all the reviews and the fanart! You're awesome!_**

_Alright, what did we think? Good, bad, eh? Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts, and I hope you've all enjoyed!_


	30. Still

_Hey guys, so I'm so happy that the werewolf AU went over so well! Thank you, honestly, everyone- everyone who follows, everyone who favorites, everyone who reviews, and even everyone who sits there quietly and just reads to themselves. You're all amazing. I can't even believe at all we've gotten to 400 reviews. I just...wow. I can't- I have no words. And in light of the success of last chapter, here, have something that will rip your heart out :)_

_KittyKati: I think that's an awesome idea! Thank you so much!_

_Rimmer: LOL I might, I'm glad you've enjoyed it so much!_

_Guest: I'm glad you enjoyed it and yes, I can do that!_

_CandyCakes: Thank you! I tried my best. Hope you like this chapter._

_NetMyne01: Thank you! I think I will write more of the werewolf AU. Thanks for your reviews!_

_Persis: I know d'Artagnan isn't small and was aware of that when I was writing the chapter. There were a few reasons I made him "small"- they've just found him, so it's around a year ago- he's not LITTLE, but he's probably a bit shorter. He's also malnourished, which make people appear smaller than they are. Also, I had to make a bit smaller because the Musketeers were alphas and he was not, and werewolf-AU-canonically omegas are smaller. I will address it next time I write a werewolf AU though and thanks so much for your review!  
_

_You know I really should be writing some of your prompts but here, have another original idea..._

* * *

Still.

He can't move- he refuses to move. He sits still, stares. Swallows convulsively even though there is nothing to swallow. His mouth is dry. He thinks he might be thirsty. He can't really tell. He couldn't get up to get himself anything anyway.

Still.

He's vaguely aware that he's being held by someone- someone with jerking shoulders and trembling lips. Brown eyes are shiny. He's wet. It's raining. He can't really feel it.

Still.

There's another presence at his side. Tall legs. They're standing. Their boots are mud slicked.

It's raining.

He feels- numb. Far away, like he's not actually in his body. He can't feel his fingers. He should look down to see if he still has them. He can't feel them. He should probably check, but he can't move. Something brushes past his ear- air. He's in someone's arms. Their breathing is shallow. He reckons that's wrong- breathing shouldn't be shallow. He's a medic. He knows.

He can't move.

He thinks he has to be buried against someone's chest, but he doesn't why, or how he got here. He doesn't remember. He feels- distant. There's a roaring in his ears that won't go away. He can't hear- these men might be talking. He can't hear. He can't feel his fingers- does he still have them?

He feels himself sniff and forces himself to move his head an inch. Just to make sure he can. He comes in contact with something leather- a jacket. His hands are fisted in it. He has to have fingers to do that, he reasons. He would check, but he can't make his arms move.

He thinks it's scary that he can't move, but doesn't actually feel scared. Just numb. Just distant. Alone.

Still.

The someone holding him takes a deep breath and moves his head with it. Is his head on a chest? Pressed against something? He can't hear, but he thinks he can feel a faint _ba-dum, ba-dum _against his cheek. A heartbeat?

His hearing begins to return- he isn't sure how long it takes. He can't tell. But he can make out a sound- the same sound that brushes air past his ear. It's quiet and desperate and barely more than a whisper.

"_Oh no...oh no…"_

He takes a deep breath- or tries. He can't- he doesn't- he can't. He feels like he's being strangled. He garbles words he doesn't understand.

The person holding him gathers him closer, and that's when he becomes aware that he's _sobbing_, his body crumpling and jerking and shuddering as he sucks in desperate breaths. There's a wailing- is that him, making that otherworldly sound?

He cringes away from the onslaught of memories that suddenly fill his head, and his eyes don't listen to him as he cries all the harder. Huge tears leak out to run down his cheeks, and though he wants to stop he can't find it in himself to be ashamed.

He can't find it in himself to be anything at the moment.

The person holding him is not crying. They are still too. They only tremble a little, eyes shining and bright, a shadow passing through them. Limp, wet hair hangs in his face; bangs are plastered to his forehead. There's a light starting of stubble- he can see it from how up close he is. A name.

_D'Artagnan._

Agony suddenly flares in his chest so hot he nearly shouts, and he can't find himself to do anything but huddle closer to the warmth and protection d'Artagnan is offering, burying his head into the younger man's chest. _Why does he hurt so much?_

The standing man sinks to his knees. Gloved hands brush at his face. He is without a hat. He has a scar running by his eyebrow. Another name.

_Porthos._

That's not right. There's one more. There has always been one more- even before d'Artagnan came along. _Who are they missing?_

"Athos," he gasps, and the name feels like steel on his lips. His chest caves in and leaves him hollow. He feels empty. "Athos."

D'Artagnan chokes.

Porthos lets out a shaking breath. "Yeah," Porthos says, but it's halting and clipped and _not okay. _"Yeah."

He's not just a little confused now, he's panicking. Athos is supposed to be with them-_so why isn't he?_

He finally summons enough strength to move, craning his head around to peer at his surroundings and _where is Athos-_

He stops.

Athos lies motionless, face down in the mud. His arms are spread to the sides and his legs are splayed out behind him in an awkward position. His hair is covered in mud and in tangles, and he doesn't move. Doesn't talk. Doesn't get up.

Aramis can't breathe.

"_Athos,"_ he chokes, and tries to scramble over, but d'Artagnan is holding him, holding him- _let me go he obviously needs help what are you __**waiting for-**_

"No Aramis! No! Don't do it, _don't-" _d'Artagnan pleads, a desperate whine growing in his throat.

"Let me go! Let me go, d'Artagnan!" He snarls, and turns and hits d'Artagnan in the face as hard as he can, and d'Artagnan quite literally goes flying as Aramis gains his feet and clambers over, slipping and sliding and scrabbling to get to his friend and then he's there, and lifting Athos, and-

He stops and barely has time to lean the other way before he's retching.

Athos' eyes stare unseeingly at the sky. His lips are parted and blood oozes from them down his chin. He stares and stares and stares but doesn't see, and there's blood, and he has no forehead. It's been blown out.

And Aramis just _retches and retches and retches._

He can't tear his eyes away. He can't move.

He can't move.

And suddenly Porthos is there and has stumbled over and grabs Aramis by the scruff of his jacket, _dragging _him away and plopping him on the ground next to d'Artagnan, who's lips are pursed in an attempt to remain strong. Aramis has seen d'Artagnan felled by less- why can he be strong now, when the whole world is crumbling down around them?

Porthos' eyes are wet.

It's raining.

He can't- he can't- Athos' eyes and his _head-_

He gags on his own horror and allows himself to be drawn to d'Artagnan's chest again, who buries his face in the back of Aramis' neck. There's something in the way he does it, something desperate and earnest and despairing that makes Aramis start to cry all over again, huge heaving things that leave him breathless and aching and empty.

Athos is dead.

His brains are blown out.

He has no forehead.

_D'Artagnan is trembling_

_Porthos is crying_

_He is shaking_

He doesn't know what to do. He can't move.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can only cry.

He can't move.

It's gone.

**...**

The funeral is- lonely. It's he and d'Artagnan and Porthos, and Tréville and a few other Musketeers, but he feels completely and utterly alone. It's raining- it hasn't stopped. A twisted smile reaches Aramis' lips because _the sun does not deserve to shine now that Athos is gone_, and it has not. It might never again.

Aramis thinks that would be appropriate.

D'Artagnan is still strong- stoic. He has become like Athos. His eyes are hard. His face is cold. When Aramis reaches for his hand, his fingers tremble. D'Artagnan has not stopped trembling.

Porthos has barely spoken three words. He stands, lips pursed and eyes narrow, expression closed off. He does not seek reassurance through touch and does not seem to care. When Aramis leans on him, though, he allows it, and lends his stability, but he does not reach out to steady Aramis. Aramis must do it himself.

There are flowers. There are prayers and hymns and crosses and priests and clothing as dark as Aramis feels. There are friends and people and quiet Porthos and trembling d'Artagnan, and Aramis. And there is a coffin fit for a king, decorated with trimmings and love and the life that Athos led. There is his sword within that coffin, curled into fists.

There is Athos in that coffin.

Aramis makes no effort to move.

There are some tears- not from him. Not from d'Artagnan or Porthos, either. They have already cried. But Tréville's eyes shine with something for his courageous Musketeer, and there is the occasional sniffle from a comrade.

It's raining.

They're all still.

He can't move.

He doesn't try.

Things settle down and fall apart after that, though Aramis isn't sure which happens first. The garrison seems bleaker, has lost its shine. It is less full of life- _Athos' _life. The thought, once he has it, makes Aramis sick.

They all stay together. Porthos and d'Artagnan and he. But there is less banter. Much of the time, they don't speak. They sit together and gaze at each other, no one sure of what to say, no one sure what really needs saying. They have lost a part of themselves, one that has been claimed by ground and dirt and death, and that is the one place they cannot follow.

Aramis finds himself often at Athos' grave. It is constantly being cared for- he knows Porthos and d'Artagnan come here religiously to polish the headstone and change the flowers, though he's not sure who does which. They come separately. Never together- not since the funeral. They know he comes too, but he usually only sits and keeps the tombstone company, because he knows that Athos is either with one of them or getting drunk in some tavern somewhere. But he isn't sitting with Aramis. That much he knows.

But he sits and keeps the ground and the coffin and the gravestone company. Fills the time with mindless chatter. Tells Athos of the stupid little things- where they're sent, what they do. He doesn't say how much they miss him because to say that would to admit that Athos is never coming back. Aramis knows this. He knows d'Artagnan and Porthos know it. It doesn't need to be uttered aloud.

He thinks that he should move on- being a Musketeer only hurts now. Reminds him of what he's lost. He should go and find Agnes, maybe- somewhere in the countryside. Out of Paris- out of France. D'Artagnan leaves- they don't know where. He says nothing of a destination. He doesn't even say goodbye.

Porthos spends more time in the Court. He seldom sees Aramis, and when he does, it's always with such hooded eyes- it almost seems as if they'll never be happy again. Not when four became three and three became two. And Aramis thinks he should go away, too-away from his hurt and his sorrow and his loss and the _stillness_.

But he can't move.

So he doesn't.

Instead he makes himself comfortable against Athos' gravestone and pulls out his pistol. Lets it fall through his hands. Twirls it, handles it. Holds it. Weighs it.

Doesn't move.

And in the end, he doesn't have to.

Because he's buried right next to Athos.

* * *

_As always thank you for reading, I hope enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion on your thoughts._


	31. Itsy Bitsy

_Hey everybody! I'm so sorry (sorta) about last chapter and putting you all through such emotional torment. I didn't-well, I did- but..._

_For **Legoelf**, who wanted the Inseparables and Treville horribly frightened of spiders and BAMF d'Artagnan._

* * *

It was widely speculated throughout the garrison (and, of course, never proven wrong) that Tréville was afraid of absolutely nothing. He was a tough and brazen sort of man, a stern captain, and a firm leader. If you had the misfortune of catching him angry, you would no doubt be incredibly sorry and horribly humiliated. You never wanted to disappointed the Captain of the Guard.

The Musketeers had seen Tréville face down bandits, crooks, criminals, ingest poison, go up against the Cardinal- even deny the King. They could say with utmost confidence that the man, their Captain, was fearless. He faced down death like it was a joke _and _put up with the Inseparables everyday. The Garrison thought it was some sort of miracle.

What was an unknown and closely guarded secret of the Captain's, however, was that he had one fear, and but one only. He would never admit it, though- not even if his life depended on it. He was the fearless tiger of the Musketeers, the captain they all adored and glorified. If his fearlessness was proven wrong, his troops would lose faith.

He had been in his office doing paperwork, minding his own business and doing his best not to be distracted. He'd sent Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan off on a short mission to deliver a letter from the King to a nearby lord, and they were supposed to have returned a couple hours ago. It was not a big deal- delays certainly happened all the time- but with the trouble those four always managed to attract, Tréville was understandably wary.

The back of his neck began to tickle, and he absently reached up a hand to scratch at it, quill still scribbling against his parchment. The scratching of the quill froze however, Treville's eyes going wide as his nails came into contact with something he'd dreaded, and with a gasp he frantically brushed at the back of his neck, feeling the disgusting creature go flying across the room.

The great beast of the Garrison, the fearless Captain of the Guard, the valiant confronter of bandits, crooks, criminals, ingesting poison, going up against the Cardinal, and even denying the King, had a horrible fear...of spiders.

It wasn't a huge deal. He simply didn't like the fact they crawled, or could wiggle into unwanted places, or had eight legs and eyes, or the fact that they could sneak up on one so stealthily you had no idea what had gotten you when you finally keeled over.

People can die of spider bites, you know.

He had no idea where it went, only that he'd managed to bat it away from him but not kill it. Blast it! He knew he should've slapped instead of swept. And now he was going to pay for it.

Maybe with his life.

Paperwork forgotten, Tréville stood up on his chair and retrieved a heavy book from atop a reachable bookshelf, peering around on the floor. As soon as he saw the little arachnid he was going to drop the book bigger than the Bible on it and crush it, and watch it squash like-

"Er, Captain?"

Tréville almost toppled from his chair in surprise.

Aramis stood in the doorway, the door shut behind him. He held a piece of paper in his hand- it was sealed shut. "I have the return letter from the lord, sir," he said slowly, eyes darting around as he obviously tried to process what was happening.

"Don't call me sir, I work for a living," Tréville snapped- the same thing he snapped every time someone called him sir, more out of habit than anything. This was no time for joking. "And put it here," he advised, jerking his chin towards the stack of papers on his desk.

"Right," Aramis agreed placing it down and turning around, doing his best to leave the room and appear like everything was normal.

He couldn't seem to do it, because he turned around and blurted, "Captain, what are you-"

"That is none of your concern," he said coldly.

Aramis swallowed, eyes darting around. Tréville began to frown. "Are you- you see, si-Captain," he said. "The only reason I can possibly think of for you standing on a chair and brandishing a book like such is that there's a spider and- I'm not...overly fond of them, if you get my meaning."

Tréville's eyes narrowed. "Leave," he growled, and Aramis nodded, ducking his head.

"Of course, Captain."

Aramis reached for the doorknob-

And let out a high pitched screech, jumping away from the door and scrambling over to climb on Tréville's desk. "What are you doing?" Tréville demanded, and Aramis lifted his boots off the floor and grabbed himself his own book.

"It was on the door handle," Aramis said quietly, and Tréville paled.

"Is it still there?"

"I'm not going to check, Captain!"

"I am ordering you to-"

"Uh," a new voice said from the doorway, and Tréville and Aramis both winced as they turned and saw Porthos standing there. The door was shut again. Both sighed in resignation, the escape route gone. "What's going on?"

Tréville was about to snarl something at him, but before he could Aramis said _helpfully_, "there's a spider and we're trying to kill it."

Tréville glared at the younger man, and Aramis cringed.

Porthos paled. "Sp-spider?" He asked, and Tréville felt dread grow in his heart as Porthos frantically turned his head left and right. "Where?"

"It was on the doorknob last," Aramis said again.

Tréville slapped him on the back of the head, hissing, "that's not helping!"

Porthos looked down at himself and gave a hoarse shout, brushing off his wrist and sprinting across the room, bounding on the desk to safety and sending papers everywhere as he was embraced by Aramis. "It's okay," Aramis assured, handing Porthos his book and grabbing another. "We're armed."

"Aye," Porthos agreed. "We'll get the small bastard."

There was a knock at the door and before the three of them could shout no, Athos opened it, his mouth falling open at the sight that greeted his eyes.

"And, pray tell, why have we decided to do paperwork this way?" He said dryly, and Porthos scowled at him.

"This is no laughing matter, Athos- there's a spider on the loose."

Athos blanched, quickly shutting the door and hurrying over, clambering onto the desk himself and stepping further on Tréville's papers. "I hate spiders," he muttered darkly and accepted the book Aramis handed him.

Tréville wasn't quite sure what to make of this new development.

The four of them kept their eyes peeled, heads cocked to the side as they attempted to spot the tiny arachnid stalking them, waiting for them to let their guards down. Their hearts pumped frantically in their chests and their breathing was heavy as they tried to remain calm, eyes narrowing in the ever darkening room. Their attacker was a whisper in the shadows- barely there, unable to clearly be seen or heard, but incredibly dangerous all the same.

There was another knock on the door.

"Do we answer it?" Porthos whispered.

"I think we have to," Athos whispered back as Tréville and Aramis kept watch, eyes darting around.

"Do it," Aramis affirmed.

"Enter!" Tréville called, and the door opened.

D'Artagnan stood in shadow due to the outside light, head canted as he drank in the sight before him. "What's going on?" A pause. "Why are you all on the table?"

"There's a spider wandering about!" Aramis whispered loudly. D'Artagnan was unimpressed.

"So? It's just a little spider. It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it."

"You don't understand!" Porthos hissed. "It crawls on people!"

D'Artagnan only seemed to grow more confused. "So you gently brush it off? What did you do, sweep it across the room?"

All of them were silent.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "Aw, that poor spider," he said, and Athos shot him a disbelieving look.

"How can you side with that- that- _creature?"_

D'Artagnan's brows furrowed and he looked slightly troubled. "That creature is a living, breathing thing, and you want to just squash it. That's cruel. What did the spider ever do to you?"

Aramis took a deep breath, about to speak, but then spotted a slight disfiguration on d'Artagnan's clothed chest and squealed, pointing and shouting, "d'Artagnan, watch out!"

D'Artagnan glanced down- and began chuckling.

"Well hey there, little spider," he said, and cupped it in his hands. He shot a dirty look at his friends and ignored their warnings and protests as he opened the latch to the door and gently placed the spider on the railing, watching it crawl to its escape.

The Musketeers and the Captain climbed down from the table, Porthos snapping, "why would you let it go?"

"You could have died touching it like that!" Aramis agreed.

Tréville and Athos just stood there and looked disapproving.

D'Artagnan ignored them all. "And thus the balance has been restored to nature," he said to himself.

The Musketeers and their Captain stared in undisguised surprise as d'Artagnan bent down, scooped up the Captain's papers, and plopped them on the desk, saying, "I'm going to get dinner, if any of you fainthearted would like to join," and chuckled as he exited.

The Musketeers could only watch him go in poorly controlled awe and disbelief, and the Captain shook his head.

"That boy is a special kind of stupid, being so reckless."

They all wholeheartedly agreed.

D'Artagnan was lucky to escape with his life.

* * *

*_"Don't call me sir, I work for a living" is a Marine quote. I thought it was suiting for Treville._

_*"And thus the balance has been restored to nature" is a Colin Morgan quote when he and Bradley James dealt with a similar situation in their hotel room with their own spider. I thought it was appropriate here_.

_fariedragon: lol I'm surprised at how many people liked the werewolf AU but there will definitely be another installment! And I'm sorry about killing both of them._

_Legoelf: thank you so so much for your review- I'm sorry I've upset you so! I hope this chapter makes up for it, however :)_

_Becimpala33: thank you! I tried._

_tmj: I'm glad it came out that way, though I'm sorry for putting you all through it. Thanks for the review!_

_CandyCakes: Your review took my breath away. Thank you for such high praise! I don't quite know what to say other than thank you so much and I'm glad that you enjoyed it. And God forbid, I hope it NEVER happens in the show!_

_ajaali: I'm sorry about that, especially with you being an Aramis girl :( I reckon we've all got a piece of the Musketeers in us with that gut feeling. Thanks for the review and I'm glad you liked it!_

_Xdaisy chainX: Thank you! Here's to hoping you had a box of tissues ready!_

_Amynion: OH NO HERE HAVE SOME TAPE **frantically rips strips of tape** Thank you! I like to consider myself occasionally devilish :)_

_AllforOne: Welcome back my friend! Err, yeah, I reckon this was a pretty terrible chapter to come back to. I hope this one makes up for it, though. It's all cracky and wonderful :D Thanks for the review!_

_ZoeBreaky: Thank you!_

_Tempest D. Uzu: I think you've suggested something like it in the past. Don't worry. Next chapter, perhaps ;)_

_fantasydancer: I don't think I've been so awed by a review. Wow. Just...thank you so much. Really._

_Sarah: Thanks!_

_The Phantom Dragon: Very well said!_

_NetMyne01: Oh dear- WE NEED MORE DUCKTAPE_

_Parisindy: Thank you so much!_

_guest: Thank you! Will do :)_

_TheInkEngraver: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoy Aramis centric ones so much and thanks so much for your review!_

_Ihni: ...Wow. I. That's a really good way to put it, actually. All of it. Thanks so much for such a glowing review- it really just made my day :)_

_bearsrawesome: YOU HAVE BEEN YOUVE BEEN SO NICE AND INCREDIBLY LOYAL AND I'M SO SORRY! *HUGS BECAUSE HUGS MAKE THINGS BETTER***_

_Guest: Thank you! I'll see what I can do._

_anyway thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed and please leave me a comment/suggestion on your thoughts!_


	32. A Flickering Flame

_For **Dragonrider2203**, who asked for D'Art told about the farm being destroyed and goes and crouches under the archway with his head in his hands- like he's considering giving up and going back to Gascony, and one of the others finds him and talks him out of it. And** Tempest D. Uzu** and **Ihni**, who really wanted to see d'Art get angry._

* * *

It was gone. It was all gone.

His farm, the last thing in Gascony he had of his parents, the last bit of his childhood- gone in flames and smoke and a blaze of heat. It must have taken barely fifteen minutes for the whole of it to burn down once it truly caught.

Everything he'd ever- all of it. All his memories. His mother's possessions, his father's things. Little mementos that didn't mean much to anyone but d'Artagnan. They had meant _everything_.

And now they were gone.

He couldn't think- he couldn't breathe. He couldn't. He just- it was all gone.

He found himself brought nearly to his knees by the force of pure sadness that hit him, crashed over him like a wave. He had nothing of his parents. Nothing of his siblings. Not even land to show for it. He had nothing. No money. All of the income he'd lived off of in Paris had come from that land and that house and that farm, and now...

It was all simply _gone_, just like that... and all because of _Labarge_.

Anger that d'Artagnan had never known licked his insides and set them aflame. What right did Labarge have to storm into his home and raze it to the ground? What right did he think he possessed in the name of God that he could present to d'Artagnan to justify the act of unadulterated cruelty against him?

None. He had no claim to the right of doing that to anyone, not just d'Artagnan, and he could barely contain the shout of agony and frustration that suddenly tried to force its way out of his throat, grabbing at his head as he put it in his hands. He was trembling with the force of this hatred inside him, trembling with the loathsome emotions swirling within him that he had no clue what to do with, feeling sadness and vengeance and _burning _rising-

He had to go back. There had to be something to be salvaged- something worthwhile that he could take. Anything. He had to rebuild, had to- had to get money coming again. He needed that money. He simply couldn't live on what he _wasn't making_ as a Musketeer, and asking his friends for financial help was- no.

He had to return to Gascony to get the land and the house and the farm rebuilt and fixed- giving up his dream temporarily, he tried to tell himself- but he knew that once he'd returned to his homeland, he'd likely never leave again. There were too many memories there and, despite being alone there and having lost most of everything that he would've returned to, he still loved it. His heart ached for it, sometimes...When it wasn't filled with adventure and bravery and brotherhood, it ached for Gascony.

He took a shuddering breath, more full of self righteousness than sadness, and wiped his face, simply crouching low to the ground as he tried to regain control of himself.

"Hey." The voice made him jump slightly, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement as Porthos came to crouch beside him. "What's got you crouching?"

D'Artagnan sucked in a breath to hide a weak chuckle. If only Porthos knew- knew how _angry _he was. He was- he was infuriated. He was just _so mad. _"He destroyed it," he said with a sardonic twist of his lips, more a grimace than a smile. "He just burnt it all to the _goddamn_ _ground."_

If Porthos was surprised at the curse that came out of their usually well spoken companion, he made no indication. He only sounded confused. "Who burnt what?"

"Well _Labarge _of course!" D'Artagnan answered, voice pitching in rage. "He just took it and BURNT IT ALL!"

He threw himself up off the ground and slammed into the wall of the archway he'd found himself under, smacking it with his fist and gritting his teeth. "What did he burn?" Porthos asked again patiently, brushing off his gloved hands from where he'd steadied himself on the ground. He seemed unperturbed by d'Artagnan's yelling. They were alone in the square, and if they weren't, d'Artagnan wouldn't have cared.

"HE JUST- HE- EVERYTHING I'D EVER HAD HE JUST STORMED IN AND DESTROYED LIKE IT WAS NOTHING, LIKE IT WASN'T ANYTHING TO ANYONE AND IT IS, AND I JUST-" d'Artagnan struggled for a moment for the right word to properly display the level of vexation he was experiencing before simply letting out an incomprehensible bellow of a sound, shouting, "AND IT WAS EVERYTHING I HAD OF MY PARENTS AND SIBLINGS AND ALL THE MONEY I'D EVER HAD TO MY NAME, AND HE JUST WENT AND _BURNT IT ALL!"_

He whirled around to look at Porthos, running hands through his wild hair in his pique, letting out another scream of wrath and slamming himself against the wall again. After a moment, he laughed, but it was cold and filled with a fire that Porthos had never heard before. "And now, _now?- _I have to return to Gascony and fix it all and give up _everything _I've worked for here. Everything I've done to earn a position in the Musketeers has been made _USELESS!" _He whirled on his friend. "Do you know what that's like? To have someone stomp on your dreams and make them worth _nothing?!" _D'Artagnan's body bent with the force of the emotions he was experiencing, and he ran hands over his face. "And for them to just be made _worthless _by someone?! I'm going to _KILL HIM!"_

The severity of this statement was not lost on the older Musketeer, who was simply watching quietly as d'Artagnan unwound himself to pieces, his ire boiling over into something desperate and so outraged it came out exasperated. "And I just- I can't do this, Porthos I can't just throw _everything_ away! AND I HAVE TO NOW _ALL BECAUSE OF HIM! I'M GOING TO SEE HIM DEAD IF IT'S THE LAST THING I EVER DO!"_

This promise of revenge was troubling to the bigger man, who grasped a distraught d'Artagnan by his shoulder. D'Artagnan was heaving- Porthos was surprised that d'Artagnan was taking such large breaths. To calm himself down? "Listen," Porthos said, and waited until d'Artagnan looked up at him, something broken and burning in his eyes. "I know that you want to get revenge, but killing is not the way." He held up a hand when d'Artagnan's mouth opened to protest. "Besides, I think killing him would be too merciful. He should rot in prison for the rest of his life and be miserable for what he's done." D'Artagnan seemed to deliberate this for a few moments before pursing his lips and shaking his head. The idea of him being miserable did seem to appeal to the young man, though, even as he turned away.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos called and waited for the young man to turn around. "Don't leave. All of your work...it can be salvaged. But don't leave. Not until we have a plan, yeah?"

D'Artagnan blinked at him and nodded slowly, mouth a thin line and eyes narrowed as he turned back around.

"D'Artagnan?"

He turned again.

"Please don't do anything that will haunt you."

D'Artagnan only nodded stiffly and slipped away, and Porthos, despite d'Artagnan's agreement, felt dread rise in his heart.

Far too many things haunted his brothers already.

* * *

_CandyCakes: Thank you! I was doing my best to keep them (slightly?) in character and still fulfill the prompt, and wasn't quite sure if it was humorously whimsical or just sounded stupid. Thanks for your review!_

_AllforOne: I agree, a handy d'Artagnan to kill spiders would be a welcome thing in my house..._

_Legoelf: HAHA! That's certainly quite the mental image :D Well I can't say I'm upset, but I'd best be getting my arsenal of chapters a bit bigger so I don't have so many prompts to work through! Thanks a bunch!_

_Xdaisy chainX: LOL that is a funny thought. Athos glaring at them all disapprovingly as Treville simply mourns the fact all of his papers have been tread on. Thanks for the review!_

_The Phantom Dragon: **Tries to withhold devious smile as I agree wholeheartedly**_

_Becimpala33: I'm sorry to hear that but glad I could make you laugh!_

_Rita Marx: I'm sorry! Gosh, I didn't mean for that to happen haha- I'm glad it was so funny though (and actually had no idea Spew Alerts existed?) I'll be sure to do so next time! Thanks for the review!_

_Valkyria Raven: I know! I'm mourning the lack of BAMF D'Artagnan stories in this collection and am determined to add some ASAP!_

_Miss Lib93: Thanks for all the reviews and I agree- as a country boy, he's surely had to deal with things much worse than the occasional spider, LOL!_

_ajaali: I know, so sorry about the other chapter (not...really though) :D Bummer but I get it because me too- sometimes even my parents wouldn't kill 'em!_

_Ihni: OH DEAR, THAT SOUNDS DREADFUL! I have often been the killer of spiders in my house (at the reluctance of myself and the insistence of my family) so I'm sorry to say I know what you've been through to some amount. Once I found a spider inside a shirt I was about to put on- holy crap that was an adventure. I ran, ripped the shirt, and refuse to wear it to this day. I am thoroughly traumatized. I agree; you have to be mad to do what d'Artagnan did in that chapter!_

_Katx: Thanks!_

_Guest: Thank you so much!_

_NetMyne01: I'm glad I could make you smile and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter!_

_LisaRosa: Ugh, me too! I would hate the regularity of pulling spiders out of boots and things- any bugs give me the creeps, aside from butterflies, which I am rather skilled at catching and making stay on my nose and fingers :)_

_Alright! Thanks for reading, hope you've enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts!_


	33. Pre to S2E1 (I can't think of a title)

_Hey y'all! Wow. I seriously just can't believe you guys. You're all spectacular. Thanks for sticking by me :)_

_This takes place some time before Episode 1, when d'Artagnan suggests Constance to the Queen as one of her maidens. This is how I think the conversation might have gone.** You can put on your slash goggles if you like- if you don't like, that's cool too- Louis just wants a friend. But ey- to each their own.**_

* * *

After d'Artagnan had become a Musketeer, he had spent many days in the Court of the King, getting to know the man he was serving under and who had seemed to take such a shining to him. He was always respectful and never overstepped any boundaries, speaking when spoken to and offering support, but he would be the first to admit to the others that he was feeling quite uncomfortable with the whole affair. The fact that the King had taken a specific interest in him could be a double edged sword, d'Artagnan reckoned quietly to himself, but didn't dare express these thoughts aloud, even to his friends.

It was with a certain degree of reluctance that d'Artagnan found himself once again standing by His Majesty, head bowed in respect and eyes trained to the ground even as the older man chatted at him. D'Artagnan, despite appearance, was listening with rapt attention- he was perhaps too cautious of what would happen to him were he caught not doing so, and always made a point to acknowledge the King at least once during a story such as this.

Maybe it was because d'Artagnan and the King were similar in age, or maybe it was simply because the royal were strange creatures who took strange interests. Either way, Louis enjoyed talking to his younger Musketeer friend, and enjoyed the attention that the younger man gave him freely. To Louis, it seemed like a deep bond had been formed when he'd granted d'Artagnan Musketeer-ship, and the Gascon always seemed to enjoy the stories he told. The King had never had a true friend before, and was quite eager that he had gained one.

The King had been recounting a tale intricately spun about his daring hunt against a buck, the Musketeer nodding a few times in acknowledgement. Louis would never admit it, but he wished that the man would look him in the eyes for once- just to see the actual shade of brown. He knew from watching him with his friends they often glinted with merriment or mirth, sometimes filled to the brim with terrible sorrow or burning with anger, and he thought that, as King, he had a right to see these expressions pass through his only friend's eyes. As it was, the Musketeer never lifted his head, eyes always trailed on the ground, and Louis was not so quick to discourage such a sign of respect, even if he so wanted to see the expressions flittering through them.

"And then, as quick as you wouldn't believe, it darted out into the path and with one shot fell to the ground, lifeless."

"Quite impressive, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said, voice full of something- maybe appreciation. It made Louis glow inside.

"Have you ever had quite a hunt as such, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan was silent for a time, but Louis had learned through experience that the Musketeer was constructing the sentences in his head in order to make no errors. It made him chuckle slightly at the thought of his friend so cautious in the presence of his King, and also humbled him slightly that d'Artagnan would take the time to also think of a rivaling story, so he let the Musketeer take his moment and glanced around the room instead.

The room was filled with council members and court alike- his beloved Queen was discussing something quietly in the corner of the room with one of her ladies, everyone milling about and chatting quietly. Louis often held gatherings like this- he believed that a talkative, easy court was a better one, and that having everyone get to know each other some lessened the tension and arguments when conflicting ideas arose. (There was no proof if its success, but nor was there any proof of its failure and Anne seemed to quite enjoy the gossip, so Louis let them continue. (Besides, it allowed more time with d'Artagnan.))

"There was a hunt in my childhood," d'Artagnan said finally. "My brother, father and I were trailing a very large boar that had often wandered into neighbouring villages and injured small children and animals, and between the three of us we managed to corner it. My brother was the one to deliver the finally kill, I believe," he reflected thoughtfully. "Only because I had fallen from my horse and was unable to rise in time to defend myself when the boar charged at me. I have a very handsome scar as a result."

"Well I'm very happy it was barely a scratch, lest you not be here today!"

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I myself am glad that I escaped so relatively unscathed."

Louis hummed in agreement, watching as his wife's brows came together when she turned and saw her Ladies in Waiting whispering quietly to themselves. He disliked the frown that crossed her lips and the troubled expression that came across her face, and turned to d'Artagnan thoughtfully. "D'Artagnan," he said. "I quite believe my wife, the Queen, is experiencing some feelings of alienation. She is, after all, a Spanish queen in a French country."

D'Artagnan remained silent, so Louis continued. "I have noticed often little...looks coming across her face, and am under the impression her Ladies are whispering behind her back."

"Your Majesty?"

"Well I hate to see her so unhappy," Louis went on, turning to his friend. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Your Majesty," his dear Queen said from his side, hands politely resting atop one another as she approached. She nodded to d'Artagnan, who stooped lower in a bow.

"Hello," he greeted. "We were just discussing you, actually."

The Queen's eyebrows rose at 'we', and she stared for a few moments at d'Artagnan. Louis could tell he sensed the gaze when a light pink spread across his olive cheeks, coloring them pleasantly. "Good things, I'd hope."

"Of course," Louis agreed, "but we were talking about how I fear you may be lonely in the court. You are happy here, aren't you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said with a slight smile and knowing blue eyes, curtsying a little. "Though I do wish that I had a confidant. Someone that I could tell anything to without being so judged for it."

Louis hummed in thought, turning. "What about you, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan started slightly, his head turning as he almost looked up accidentally. Louis' heart jumped in excitement, but the Musketeer caught himself before his eyes managed to get past the top button of Louis' shirt, and his gaze returned to the floor. "Your Majesty?"

D'Artagnan always asked for permission to speak- Louis didn't know why, but the young Gascon had quite a few quirks that Louis enjoyed humoring. This was one of them. "Speak your mind, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, eyes distant in thought. "I believe I may know of a woman for Her Majesty," he said slowly. He let out a breath. "Her name is Constance Bonacieux, the madame of a very wealthy merchant, Monsieur Bonacieux. She is steadfast and incredibly level headed, and a very trustworthy lady." A slight smile touched his lips, one of the first that Louis had seen, and his heart ached to make his friend smile in the same way. "She...is very loyal," he said finally. "And very clever."

The Queen brightened. "She sounds lovely," she said, and glanced at Louis, who grinned at her. "I shall send for her at a moment's notice, then," she continued, smiling at the bowed head of the Musketeer. "Thank you, d'Artagnan."

His eyes nearly met hers again in surprise, and he barely managed to keep his gaze in check. Louis found himself desperately trying to glimpse the light of hope in d'Artagnan's eyes before they were lowered again, but he had little luck.

"Your Majesty," he said in response, and she glided away, presumably to rejoin other conversations.

"You are...fond, of Madame Bonacieux, are you?" Louis asked casually, and watched as d'Artagnan stiffened slightly.

"...She is a madame, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan answered a few moments later. "She has been a dear friend to me since I have come to Paris, but no, I am not..._fond_ of her in such a way."

"Well that's very good then, considering she's married," Louis said, and d'Artagnan swallowed.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied. Louis noted his stiffness but decided not to call him out on his sudden discomfort.

"I wonder how she'll fare living in the palace," Louis said, and d'Artagnan's head nearly shot up.

"Your Majesty?"

"Well, she'll be living with my Queen, I'd say," he continued. "An honored position deserves such an honor, I believe. Don't you?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." D'Artagnan sounded like he was desperately trying to remain calm, something akin to excitement in his voice. Maybe it was hope.

"And you'll be able to see her more, considering the likelihood of her accompanying the Queen to gatherings like this," he gestured around. "And in Court, when the Musketeers attend. She'll likely be there too."

D'Artagnan couldn't seem to help it- he raised glorious brown doe eyes to Louis' face, searching for an untruth. Louis drank in the sight of this Musketeer's whole face- his expressive eyes and the small circlet of gold in the centers of his irises, the small scar on his chin, the beginnings of stubble, the high cheekbones. He was proud of himself for finally managing to get the Musketeer to lift his gaze to him, and d'Artagnan seemed to find what he had been looking for (or remembered his place) because they dropped down to his boots again.

It had lasted barely a second, but it had been enough.

"Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said in what Louis interpreted to be an apology.

Louis didn't want his new friend to think he'd done something wrong, however- quite the opposite, actually- so he merely grinned and wrapped his fingers around d'Artagnan's upper arm, guiding him forwards. "You need not be; having someone like you at Court is amusing to me. Please feel free. Have I yet told you about the time I hunted a hawk and managed to track it for four leagues?"

D'Artagnan's lips quirked, and Louis imagined his eyes crinkling in the corners. "No, Your Majesty," he answered, a smile in his voice.

"Well, it was a rainy day in the middle of April- no June, I believe- and the odds were quite against us. You see…"

And it had all been worth it the day Madame Bonacieux had been accepted in the Court, d'Artagnan's huge brown eyes snapping up to the faces of the King and Queen, filled with a light that Louis determined was something akin to awe and something that reminded the King very much like the warmth swirling in his chest.

And Louis thought to himself that he would do most anything to keep that small smile on d'Artagnan's face.

And then there came the night they were taken.

* * *

_NetMyne01: Thank you! I did my best. I've had quite a few fits like this, actually. You always end up with such nasty bruises from slamming into things..._

_Legoelf: Thank you! I was trying to portray how alone d'Artagnan felt, but his brothers will always be there for him._

_Becimpala33: Me too. It felt a little strange when no one found him after they found out, especially with their hug and the gladness of all of them being alive in the next couple of episodes. Thanks for the review! (Snuggly musketeers are coming!)_

_CandyCakes: To me it seems like Porthos would be the one to best understand his anger for some reason. Thanks a bunch!_

_Katx: Thanks! Will do :D._

_Italianlife55: Hi! Thanks so much for such a glowing review! I'm just happy you're enjoying it so much. Thank you so much, it really means so much to me! Good luck with all that stuff and I hope you've had boxes of tissues handy!_

_Ihni: That's a really beautiful way to put last chapter. Anger that's anger because the person can't despair. It's very true. Thanks for all your reviews, they really just put a smile on my face :)_

_ravenwingedyokai: Hi! Thanks a bunch for your review and I love that suggestion!_

_The Phantom Dragon: I know right? From appearances they seem to be pretty...luxurious :( Galavant! I've been meaning to watch that! How is it? I heard Timothy Omundson is in it and I adore him, and I might just keep this plushie for myself...Thanks for the review!_

_parisindy: Thanks!_

_firghttowin1: Hi! Thanks so much for all your reviews, I really appreciate it! _

_Alright, that's it! SNUGGLY MUSKETEERS ARE NEXT YAY I LOVE WRITING THOSE (it's sort of deep and meaningful though, but there's fluff all around it so that's always nice) but anyway thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts!_


	34. Sleep is a Strange Thing

_Hi guys! Wow. I just honestly and continuously amazed by all your support and feedback. Maybe a better snuggly musketeers chapter will come along, but for now, here- have a thoughtful Athos chapter with sleepy snuggles on the side._

* * *

Sleep is a strange thing.

It drives people to a certain degree of laziness, strips one of burdens and sorrows, grants peace and solace. Sometimes it contains unspeakable things- night terrors and horrors and realizations that your subconscious has refused to confide in you during wakefulness. Sometimes it holds a promise of a new day, a better day, when you open your eyes again- and sometimes it means nothing at all.

Sleep is a strange thing, Athos figures, because it peels away masks that are solid like steel in the light of day.

Anne had always lied perfectly still on her back, one hand curled into a loose fist on her chest and the other at her hip. Her face was never at peace- there was always a pinch in her brow, a purse to her lips. It didn't occur to Athos when he watched her and smoothed these little marks away that they were clues, hints, and he was meant to recognize him. He was only in love, and saw a troubled woman with a troubled past, but he loved her.

Thomas had always giggled in sleep, like he'd heard the greatest joke of all time in a dream. Thomas was a quiet sleeper besides, though- never one to move around much or splay out his limbs, but he'd move towards you if you happened to be lying by him. Seeking warmth, Athos always thought, but he hadn't known that Thomas only came close with him and no one else.

Athos hadn't realized that until Thomas was long gone and he was cold, only the burn in his throat and the smell of whiskey on his breath for company.

He'd come to the Musketeer Corps with little more than a bottle in his hand and a penny to his once noble name, his sleep never restful and always filled with nightmares.

He'd met Aramis, then, scarred and scared from Savoy, and together they'd found a mutual friendship- one that kept some of the nightmares away for the both of them. That meant that, in the early days, Aramis often woke calling names and crying for help and screaming for _someone, anyone, please we need help- _but Athos was there, quietly saying Aramis' name to get his attention, waiting until brown eyes lightened and shadows cleared. Aramis, back then, never really slept- dark circles were always under his eyes. He was tense in sleep, always waiting, listening, dozing, and never really resting.

Then they'd met Porthos. Porthos had trouble falling off, but usually once he was out, he was out. He didn't snore as much then as he did now- he had been quiet, too quiet, a learned sort of awareness from being on the streets too long and watchful of his own back, the kind of man who'd learned to grab sleep wherever and whenever it was offered. He very rarely moved- he was often on his side with one arm under his head, and often curled into whoever happened to be next to him.

Aramis, now, sleeps peacefully. They're not short their nightmares, but Aramis' face is less pinched and goes lax in sleep. He breathes easy, and is no longer tense- instead he seems to enjoy tangling his limbs in everyone else's. He doesn't mean to- they'll all start unwoven- but in the morning when they wake they're sharing pillows and blankets and their arms and legs are hooked.

Porthos, too, is better for their time together. He snores loud and long, and will pull whoever is close to him closer. They wake up many mornings all smushed together and barely able to breathe, so pressed to Porthos are they, but Porthos sleeps easier and so they put up with it. It's more endearing than it is annoying.

And d'Artagnan?

D'Artagnan, when he first sleeps beside them, is stiff and hesitant. He doesn't sleep- they can feel him fidgeting in the night. When he finally does drop off, it's to wake every hour to move, or to adjust a blanket, or to squirm uncomfortably next to Aramis as Aramis pins his legs, stretching one arm across his chest and making like he's reassuring himself d'Artagnan's there.

It takes a few times, as it had for Aramis and Porthos, but d'Artagnan finally grows comfortable enough with the idea that whatever has its hold on him loosens. He crawls in beside them with little fuss and settles down, blinking sleepily- as he is wont to do when he is tired- and gazing at them all with soft eyes. Something in that gaze is raw and powerful for a minute, and Athos finds it in himself to finally look away, making himself comfortable as d'Artagnan settles between he and Aramis.

D'Artagnan drops off easy, breaths growing light and face smoothing out. In sleep, he looks nothing like rash twenty year old who grew up too fast. He looks quite like a little boy after a long day of play.

It only takes around ten minutes before he starts to move.

D'Artagnan doesn't sleep still. He stretches and moves and throws his limbs over everyone and everything, arms arched over chests and legs kicking out the covers. They wake often in the middle of the night from shivers and wrestle the covers back over d'Artagnan, but it's of little consequence because they just end up at his feet again. He and Aramis get along well- they're often pressed up against each other, and Porthos pulls the both of them close, wedged to his chest.

Athos wishes in this moment that he could draw half as well as d'Artagnan, if only to capture the sweetness, the guilelessness of them in sleep.

Aramis and Porthos are only slightly younger- d'Artagnan more so- but they're all _younger_, and he feels responsible for them to some degree. He spends nights sitting up and chasing away d'Artagnan's nightmares of his father, Aramis' of Savoy, and Porthos' of hunger and hatred and homelessness. If he's tired in the morning, he doesn't notice it. It's only on the days where his bed is empty and he is alone in it that he gives into the whisper of the spirits that urge him to believe in them once more.

But when he's with his brothers, he's still. He lies on his back- he won't let any side be more exposed than another. His breaths are steady, shallow; he's not completely asleep. His wife has made that impossible for him now. His lips are pursed as he dreams; his arms are folded across his chest.

One of Aramis' legs is wound up in his own. Aramis' lips are parted and his face, which once would have been pinched, is peaceful. Athos thinks that maybe if Aramis spent some of his days truly being relaxed instead of pretending to be, the world- and Aramis himself- would be better for it.

Porthos' hand sits on his shoulder from where he's reached across. He's partially sitting up- only because he'd fallen asleep whilst cleaning his pistol, which has since been moved to the bedside table. (No matter how reassuring his dagger may be, Athos believes a loaded pistol to be another matter entirely, and doesn't quite trust his trouble-prone younger brothers not to manage to do something stupid with it.) But Porthos is untroubled in sleep, his mouth open as rumbling snores escape.

D'Artagnan is on his stomach, one arm slung across Athos' torso as d'Artagnan's face presses into his side, nose digging into his ribs. He snuffles a little and rubs one cheek on the coarse fabric of Athos' shirt, murmuring something under his breath as his fingers twitch, nearly tickling Athos from where they rest against his other side.

He doesn't really mind any of this, though.

Aramis is endearingly strange in sleep, a cuddler who will press his whole body up against you or drape himself over you, as he does now to d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan looks comfortable and content, sleepy warmth radiating from him and seeping in Athos' chilled bones. Porthos' rumbling snores seem quite like a lullaby.

Sleep is a strange thing, Athos figures.

If only because it draws people closer than they would admit in daylight.

But Athos thinks that, for these brothers, he'd do most anything to keep them as happy and whole as eased of worries, just as they do when they all share a bed.

And Athos gives himself this moment of peace, closing his eyes.

* * *

_Happy-rea: Thank you so much!_

_Ihni: Thank you! There might be a continuation at some point, yeah :) All your reviews make me smile!_

_Becimpala33: Thank you! I hope you liked the chapter!_

_**Almonx: Firstly, welcome to the story! Thank you for your prompt :) I intend to do another werewolf chapter but I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean by d'Art being a human while the others are weres...I'd appreciate it if you could explain a bit more. If not, that's okay- I'll improv :)**_

_kungfupandabear: Thank you so much!_

_Tidia: Of course- who wouldn't want d'Artagnan? But alas, he is Louis'- and thank you! I thought d'Artagnan would have a bit of difficulty at first looking at Louis with nervousness and such._

_Violet Eternity: Thank you!_

_CandyCakes: Thank you so much! As someone who had never been introduced to the Court of the King before, I figured d'Art would be a little nervous. And with the way Louis acted in the episode An Ordinary Man, I was picking up the vibe that Louis wanted a friend._

_katx: Thanks!_

_Gin: Thanks a bunch!_

_Wolfdragonful: Thank you so much! Glad you think so :)_

_Adrian Nox: This review...Wow. I really am just speechless with such praise- thank you so much!_

_Guest: I suspect there will be a continuation, yeah :)_

_Anna: Thank you! Trying me best here :)_

_Phantom Dragon: To be honest, I just wanted a plushie LOL :D Lol really? I can't wait to watch it! I STILL have yet to see it, but I've been horribly busy, so soon, I suspect_

_NetMyne01: thank you! And I agree, the King is a stuck up child. Thank you so much! I did my best :)_

_**Iris: Hi! I'm so happy you're liking the story and thanks for your review! I'm not sure how well d'Artagnan being Athos' son will go along- they're only around ten years in age difference, and I doubt Athos would've had a child at twelve years old, but I'll see what I can do :) Thanks for the suggestion!**_

_Rowena Renee: Thank you again for all your reviews! They really do bring a smile to my face. Still haven't seen eps, huh? Do you have Demand? Maybe go to starhlord . Tumblr . Com without spaces, she has good links?_

_JaymieCaitlyn: Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed mine! Yes, I think there will be a follow up chapter, and thanks a bunch for the review! Hope you like chapters to come!_

_***Accepting S2 E2 and 3 prompts as of now***_

_Thank you for reading, please leave me a suggestion/comment on your thoughts, and I hope you enjoyed and that your day is bright and cheerful!_


	35. Papa?

_Hey y'all! I can't believe we've made 500 reviews. I can'g believe. I just- wow. Wow. You guys are spectacular. Thanks to all who read, review, favorite and follow!_

_So I tried something new here and it's really quick, but I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Can you tell me story?

Well sure I can. Come on then. Get all cozy. That's right- blanket right up to your chin. Are you warm enough?

Yes, Papa.

Good.

Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Can you- nevermind.

What is it then, my lad? You can always ask me anything- you know that. Me or Maman. Whatever's on your mind.

Um...

Now now, just don't shift around. You're meant to be sleepin', see. Don't want to get me in trouble with Maman, do you?

No, Papa. Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Can you tell me the story? The story of the Three Musketeers?

Which story about them? I've got lots.

The one where you give us...our names.

Well, my lad, your older brother's name is Athos. Athos was the oldest out of all of us- 'e was even older than your old Papa. Athos believed in spirits and friendship and was a bit of a lonely old codger, now that I think of it, but he was a loyal friend and had a good heart. A sharp togue, too.

Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Was he the best? Does our Athos look like your Athos?

...Well my lad, that's a question. Not really, no. Your brother's skin is darker. Athos' skin was very light. His hair is darker, too. Shorter. But he's got blue eyes like my Athos did- big an' bright.

Was he the best?

Out of all of us, he was the most experienced. I wouldn' be so quick to call 'im the best at it all, though.

What about Charlie?

Your little brother- he certainly gets into enough mischief to be.

Your Charlie- you didn't call him Charlie, did you?

No, no. D'Artagnan, was what we called him. Now your brother does look a shot like him, I'd say- got the same hair and eyes and skin tone. But his nose is mine, and his chin's Maman's.

Papa?

Yes, love?

What was he like?

Well...he was youngest. He was very brave, if a little rash, and had a very deep thirst for justice. And stubborn- by God, he was stubborn. He was very compassionate, too- and not a day goes by where I don't see him in your little brother.

...Papa?

Yes, love.

What about me?

Well you, my lad, are named after my very best friend. He was a charmer- and a good man. The best.

Do I look like him?

After his own heart, you are. I don't really think it matters.

Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Why're we all named after your brothers?

...I lost them a long while ago now, my lad. And it hurts me everyday. They went somewhere I couldn't follow.

Papa?

Yes, love.

Can they come visit and play?

No, my lad. They're somewhere we can't follow- or get to. You'll understand when you're older.

Papa?

Yes, my lad?

Why- um. Why are you so sad when you talk 'bout them?

...Well, I miss them very much. Wouldn't you have an ache for your brothers if they went away?

Yes, Papa.

It's very much the same for me with my brothers. But your Maman an' me- we're doing alright. And your brothers aren't going to leave you anytime soon.

...Papa?

Yes, love.

Where did your brothers go? Why can't you follow?

I'll explain it to you one day. Papa's tired now, and little lads should be asleep.

I'm sorry I made you sad, Papa.

You didn't make me sad, love. I just remember all the good times we had and I miss them. But you didn't make me sad. You never make me sad.

Goodnight, Papa.

Goodnight my lad. Sweetest dreams.

Papa?

Yes, Aramis?

I love you.

I love you too. With all my heart.

What's it you used to say to each other again?

_..._All for one, and one for all.

* * *

_Debbie: LOL maybe! We had like, seventeen straight chapters of d'Artagnan whump already- I'm trying to give the other guys a time to shine too :) But I'll see what I can whip up!_

_Almonx: Thank you! And thank you for specifying- that sounds pretty awesome! Because it's a completely different werewolf AU that I have going, I wondered if you had any specifications- like them being omegas or betas or what not? If not that's cool- once again I shall improv :) Thanks again!_

_Guest: Thank you for reading and reviewing it! I love Musketeer snuggles!_

_Sarah: thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed that!_

_Katx: Thank you! You're sweet :)_

_Rowena Renee: Thank you for the review! And you're too sweet :) I'm glad you're enjoying it! The werewolf AU you asked me about: it's okay with me so long as you credit the ideas that are mine, if you use them. Thanks for asking me :)_

_Gin: Thanks a bunch!_

_Alright, that wraps that up- tell me what you think, if you liked this new idea/way of writing, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt! Thanks for reading!_


	36. The Beating of an Aching Heart

_Hey guys! Long time no see. I'm so sorry about the delay- things hit the fan pretty hard, and admittedly I've just been whistlin' Dixie instead of working on this story and have been sucked into my Walking Dead muse. It's...terrible, honestly. But I saw the finale for season two and OH MY GOD LIKE? CAN WE TALK ABOUT IT? CAN WE HAVE DETAILED CONVERSATIONS ABOUT THAT HUG? ABOUT HE AND CONSTANCE? CAN WE?_

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little tag to S2 E7, when we learn that Bonacieux has kicked the can._

* * *

"Whose blood is this?"

There something pounding in her ears- her heartbeat, maybe. Something erratic and panicked and desperate, something that makes her think- but she doesn't want to think-

She doesn't want him to, doesn't want him to take her and tell her everything will be alright, doesn't want him to take her hands and draw her close and kiss her forehead and whisper things to her that are meant to make her feel better, but she knows he will, and she knows she needs it.

"Constance...I'm so sorry."

She knows, she knows- she knows who he's talking about, knows he's sorry even if he threatened to do it himself, knows that he's too kind for his own good and feels her pain but it hurts _so much-_

She doesn't want this to happen here, not at the Musketeer Garrison, not in such a public place- she can't have it happen here, she can't break down and show weakness in front of such men-

But when she turns, the courtyard is clear. There isn't a Musketeer in sight.

"Constance-"

"Whose blood?" She needs to hear it- she doesn't want to, but, but-

"Con-"

"D'Artagnan!" It's shrill, it's- it's. She doesn't want to. Don't tell me, she wants to say, but the words are caught in her throat. Don't tell me, please. Don't say that-

"It's your h- Bonacieux's."

She can see it, how it physically pains him to call Bonacieux her husband, and it makes something evil and angry swell inside her, even though she doesn't know why. Maybe because Bonacieux _was _her husband and d'Artagnan- no.

"What's happened?" There's a tremble to her lips, her hands. There are tears. She chooses not to notice them. "What's happened? _Tell me!"_

"Constance, I'm so sorry." There's such anguish in his big brown eyes, doe eyes, innocent eyes. Anguish for her. She doesn't want pity.

She's being cradled against his chest and his heartbeat is under her ear. Oh- how she loves his heart. She loves the way it thrums, the way it sounds, the way it loves. The way it beats for life and love and justice. How it clutches things dear to him close enough that she can hear it with every beat.

_Ara-mis. Por-thos. Ath-os. Tre-ville. Con-stance. Con-stance. Con-stance._

And then she's crying, and he's holding her, and his lips are on her forehead. She loves him- she loves him so desperately and so wholly that sometimes it scares her. But then it consumes her and he consumes her and he's so addicting, and she was never good enough for Bonacieux and for that she feels guilty, but she's good enough for d'Artagnan, even when she isn't. She isn't. But he and his heart seem to think she is.

"Come on," he whispers, and pulls her to his apartments, guides her gently through the streets. His hand in hers is innocent, guileless. He is guileless.

"Was he alone?" She finds herself sobbing, unable to fathom it though he was such a terrible man to her, struck her the last time she saw him, professing her love to d'Artagnan and spitting her lack of it in Bonacieux's face. She's ashamed.

"No," d'Artagnan answers at length. "I was there with him."

She's relieved- d'Artagnan is not cruel. D'Artagnan is not cruel. He did not leave Bonacieux alone.

"Thank you," she sobs, and he kisses her forehead.

"You shouldn't be alone right now. I'll take you to my-"

"I just want to go home," she admits tearfully, and he rubs up and down her arms. They're cold. He shrugs off his jacket and pulls it around her shoulders, but she doesn't move to acknowledge it's there. "Please, d'Artagnan- I just want to go _home_." Her breath hitches.

"Okay," he says quietly, takes her hand and leads her further. "Okay, we'll go home. Come on. It's okay, it's alright...sh…" She doesn't want to _sh_, but hushes her breath.

Her lip throbs.

He unlocks the door for her, leads her inside. Sits her down and makes her some tea. Makes her drink it.

The next thing she knows she's being tucked into bed, the covers being pulled up gently around her, a gentle kiss to her forehead as d'Artagnan withdraws. "Don't go," she wobbles, and she needs him whether she likes it or not because she doesn't deserve him and Bonacieux doesn't deserve this in his bed, but she can't be alone. She's weak like that. "Don't go, _please_. I- I don't want to be alone."

"Alright," he whispers to her. His voice is always so soft. "Alright. Scoot over-" she shuffles to make room in bed and shivers at the cold sheets, but he climbs in after her and he's so warm, warm and soft and sweet, and she tucks into his side before she can rebuke herself. Tears slip out from under her eyes, and d'Artagnan kisses them away.

"This isn't fair to him," she tells him tearfully, breath hitching again in a sob. It isn't, and it's all her fault. "You shouldn't be here-"

"Shh," he tells her, soft as anything, and kisses her nose. "Close your eyes now, love. I'll keep you safe till morning."

She wants to tell him that she doesn't need to be kept safe, doesn't need for a man to protect her especially d'Artagnan, doesn't need any of these things that he's doing for her, but she does, and that's the worst feeling in the world.

He kisses the delicate crease between her brows until it eases, then kisses her eyelids until they stop letting tears leak. Kisses her raw nose and the cut on her lip, kisses her tear stained, stinging cheeks. Kisses her bruised chin and her sore jaw from clenching her teeth so hard. Does it all again.

She falls asleep under these caring ministrations, tucked close to his side, cold body pressed against his warm one, head cushioned on his chest, listening to his heart beat for her.

In the morning, she can't bear to look at him.

* * *

_This was really fun to write, honestly, though it's short. Just finished it tonight actually **HIDES** but my D'Artagnan x Constance feels were buzzing like crazy._

_Guest: Thank you so much for crying- I can't believe this story is worth some of your tears! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_

_Almonx: Sounds good to me! Can't wait to write it. I do warn you that my prompt list is very, very long, and so it may be a while as I pick randomly from it, but it IS coming at some point and I can't wait either!_

_Katx: You're too kind, thank you so much!_

_**Moniker:** __Holy moly macaroni this is a long one! Thank you so much! Happy Birthday, first off! Hope it was a festive celebration and that you're enjoying the account :) You can learn, and believe it or not I am only slightly older than you- younger than most think. I've been writing since I was six years old and it took me a while to get this good, and I'm still learning and growing and changing and ugh, I look back on writing and CRINGE. But you can learn and I have faith! You've certainly got the personality for it ;) Oh, be picky about spelling- me too! I hate it when they don't capitalize correctly and it just- it looks WRONG. I'm glad you like my chapter lengths- I try to go long but sometimes (this time, for example) they just don't get to where I need 'em. Ah well. Quality over quantity after all :) How in HELL did you know I'm planning a Musketeer Musical. How the- hell. Goddammit. It was meant to a SURPRISE, thank you very much. I could make marshmallows exist- I can do it. I can do it. It won't be historically accurate AT ALL, but I CAN DO IT! I just warn you my prompt list is very long, so either A) it won't come for a bit BUT IT WILL COME or B) it will be combined with some other prompts. If that's okay with you? (I hate reviewing on mobile- get what you mean.) Thank you so much for the lengthy review and I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well!__Thank you so much! That fanart sounds AMAZING and I would be so flattered if you would draw it and share your talent with the world! Even if you do copy other people's styles the fact that you can do so at all is so amazing, and I hope to see it someday! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!_

_Alright guys, finally back on track a bit. Again I'm sorry for late updates, life got out of control but eyy, that's life, innit? I hope you enjoyed despite the length, please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts, and have a great day/night! See ya!_


	37. Soldatino Pt 1- tu sei il mio soldatino

_Hello all my friends! I hope you enjoyed your holidays, whatever they may be, and that you're excited for this new chapter! I think it'll be one of 3 parts, though I'm not entirely sure. I can't remember if I responded to all your kind reviews- if not, I apologize, so much happened within the last three weeks that updating just became a hassle. Nevertheless here it is, and I am** SO EXCITED TO SAY THANK YOU TO LORDANDEMPRESSDOODLE, who made us some more FANART!** OH goodness it really is just so spectacular, thank you so much- if you want to take a gander go ahead and check out my profile, there's a link. _

_This is actually based off a headcanon of mine (and ugh it's my favorite honestly I think it's so amazing) so here's the chapter and I hope you like it as much as I do, folks!_

* * *

D'Artagnan could sort of remember his mother.

Not much, mind you, but a little. She had been from Sicily, Italy, and had spoke very little French. Over the years his father had taught his mother common French sayings and she could speak her piece when she happened to go out to market, but in Gascony, which was primarily farming country and had acres of rolling hills between manors, it wasn't anything of real consequence.

As a result, d'Artagnan's first language happened to be Italian, so he could better speak with his mother. All of his siblings' first languages had been Italian too, his father (seemingly) perfectly happy to let his children first understand and talk to their mother. It hadn't taken him long to master French once he'd learned Italian- but he _could _speak both, and he could speak them well.

As far as he could remember, he looked like his mother- dark eyes, dark skin. Dark hair. His father had been very fair skinned despite living under the harsh sun of Gascony and his eyes had always been a light hazel, but d'Artagnan and his siblings had all inherited their mother's darker skin tone and hair color. D'Artagnan, however, was the only one who had gotten her eyes, and he found it often made him easily mistaken for Spanish.

His mother had passed away when he had been naught but twelve- disease. D'Artagnan couldn't quite remember what she had contracted, but it had killed her slowly and painfully, and she had practically withered away before his very eyes.

He loved his mother dearly. He hadn't understood why she'd left him.

He couldn't remember the last words they spoke to each other.

But he could remember the old Italian song she used to sing.

His mother had been a firm believer that prayers and songs and hymns lightened the spirit and replenished the soul, and had always had a tune on her lips. She had been a good baker, too, d'Artagnan could recall- she always sang when she cooked. But he couldn't remember what she had been preparing or why, or the traditions she had at Christmastime, or the way her eyes sparkled, or how dearly she truly adored her children.

But he could remember the song- bits and pieces and snatches of a tune that floated around at the back of his mind. When he was lonely or missing her or his father too much or generally uncomfortable or frightened, he tried to remember her voice singing it to him, crooning it to him at bedtime, humming it gently around the kitchen. But he couldn't remember her voice. Just the words.

It no longer saddened him- his mother had been gone a while. The agony of her loss had soothed to a dull ache- the absence of a mother's love, the knowledge that when he went home no loving, doting parents weren't waiting for him- it had long since died down to a faint tug of longing. That didn't mean it wasn't still there though, and maybe that was why he could find himself softly humming it under his breath when he did things- simple things, like brush down his horse or prepare his own meal, but they must have somewhere in his mind reminded him of her.

Francoise had been her name. Italian origin, he was told by his father later, and that she needn't change it, so used was it in France.

D'Artagnan thought that was good, his mother being able to keep her name. It made his memory of her sweeter and made her more compact as a person- like she truly lived instead of just having existed.

He had never told his friends because they had simply never asked. D'Artagnan wasn't so willing to have his history spewed out for all to see, after all, and he was still mistaken for being of Spanish origin. That was fine with him. He honestly didn't care if his skeletons stayed in his closet- in fact, he rather liked them that way.

Unfortunately, they seemed determined to escape.

And the day they did wasn't unlike any other day.

The Musketeers had hung about the Garrison for awhile, Aramis and Porthos sparring with each other, d'Artagnan training further with Athos. The older Musketeer seemed- if not impressed, then _pleased _with d'Artagnan's continuous progress, and the thought made something inside d'Artagnan preen with pride. It was hard to gain the approval of Athos and even harder to maintain it, but d'Artagnan had the feeling he had successfully done both so far.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan," Tréville barked, making them all stop and glance up at him. "Change and be ready in five minutes. We've been summoned by the King."

"I wonder why that is?" Aramis asked once Tréville had retreated back into his office. "There's no crisis to be dealt with at the moment, is there? Tréville wouldn't have gone back into his office had there been."

"Dunno," shrugged Porthos, pulling on his pauldron and shrugging on his coat. "Best we get goin' to see what it is, eh?"

'It' turned out to be a middle-aged woman that had been found lying on the side of the road into Paris, sobbing incoherently and seeking audience with the King. Louis, as it was, was sitting rather impassively on his throne, looking terribly bored.

D'Artagnan had a hard time keeping the sudden anger that flared in check, and he narrowed his eyes as he tried to rein in his temper. Getting angry at the King- especially accidentally channeling all the anger already there- was a dangerous business.

The middle aged woman was of darker skin tone- darker than d'Artagnan's, anyway. Her hair was dark and so were her eyes, and when she turned desperately looking for someone who would understand her, d'Artagnan was struck that this woman's eyes were the same shade as his mother's.

This woman must have recognized something in his face, for she lunged for his hand and clung to it, bringing it close and simply holding it, huge caramel eyes pleading with him. "_Per favore, signore, per favore- parla italiana?"_

Louis sighed, blowing it noisily from his lips and making a dismissive gesture with his hand. "She's been asking the same thing all morning and we're no closer to understanding her- why didn't you send for someone useful, Tréville? Your Musketeers obviously don't speak Italian," he said, and d'Artagnan could almost see the sigh shift his captain's shoulders.

Porthos turned to Aramis, who shrugged. "I only speak Spanish," he told them.

D'Artagnan sighed and gave the poor woman a gentle look. "_Si, signora, io parlo italiano. Non hai paura- sei al sicuro." _He tried to look reassuring.

"_Oh, grazie, signore, grazie!"_

D'Artagnan was all too aware of the stares he was receiving. They burned a hole through his back, and it was making him slightly uneasy. "_Signora, come ti chiami? _(Ma'am, what's your name?)" He opted for informal this time- it tended to make people feel better. That's what his mother had always said. (Granted, using the informal tense without express permission was a mite risky- but d'Artagnan had a little faith.)

"_Io sono Signora Maria Bonacelli _(I am Mrs. Maria Bonacelli)," the woman told him breathlessly, eyes wide and tear filled.

"_Bene, signora,"_ he said softly, and her hold on his hand grew tighter. "_Sono d'Artagnan dei Moschettieri del Re. Aiuto te. _(I am d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers. I'm going to help you)." He turned and, ignoring all of their dropped jaws, informed them calmly, "her name is Maria Bonacelli. I've told her that I'm going to help her, and have introduced myself."

Athos himself seemed completely unperturbed, but Porthos and Aramis blinked at him like they couldn't believe their ears. D'Artagnan canted his head slightly at Athos, eyes narrowing, and Athos just gave him the ghost of a smile.

Oh, he should've guessed. Athos _had _been brought up as the future Comte de la Fere, after all.

"_Mi puoi dire cosa è successo? (_Can you tell me what happened)?" d'Artagnan asked carefully, and Athos nodded his approval. The story comes first, he'd always told d'Artagnan. Story first, comfort later.

Signora Bonacelli took a deep breath. _"Stavo Caminando con mio figlio sulla strada . Siamo stati attaccati da banditi sulla strada per Parigi. Avevamo fatto il giro e ci entra attraverso il guascone." _She paused to gulp something back that d'Artagnan interpreted as a sob. "_Hanno preso mio figlio e mi ha lasciato in mezzo alla strada. Mi hanno dato lividi brutto e mi taglio qui, e poi mi ha lasciato a mortire."_

D'Artagnan gently squeezed her hand as he watched a couple of tears escape her eyes, barely catching Constance's surprised gaze as he turned to the King and his fellow Musketeers. "She says that she and her son were walking on the road to Paris- through Gascony- and attacked by brigands." D'Artagnan found he had somewhat of a hard time relaying this story on- something about this woman distinctly reminded him of his mother. Maybe it was because the last time he had spoken Italian it had been on her death bed.

He was desperately trying not to think about that.

"_Sei andato attraverso il confine con la Spagna?"_ He asked, canting his head. Signora Bonacelli sniffed and tentatively nodded. D'Artagnan pursed his lips and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt; that would make this conversation all the harder. _"Grazie, signora. Un momento, per favore."_

"Her son was taken and she was left with bruises and cuts on the side of the road, where the brigands thought she might die. They left and she must have been found there." He paused. "She...she went through Spain to get there."

There was silence around the room for a few moments, but then Louis began to slowly clap, a huge and indubitably fake grin on his face. "Well done, d'Artagnan! I wonder, was your mother or father Italian, then?" He seemed not to notice the part about Spain that d'Artagnan had added, and for that, the youngest Musketeer was unendingly grateful for, even as the question set him on edge as he grit his teeth and turned away.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. He had to remind himself firmly to remain composed. "My mother," he replied in a clipped tone that he couldn't quite manage to keep in check, and turned away, indicating enough there had already been enough words on the matter.

"_Vuoi trovare il mio figlio?" _The woman pleaded, and d'Artagnan nodded.

"_Si, signora. Faremo del nostro meglio per troviamo suo figlio."_

He turned to Athos, whose lips were curled up in the startings of a smile.

"What'd'ya say?" Porthos asked, and d'Artagnan looked at him.

"She asked me to find her son," he said. "And I promised that we would do our best to bring him back to her."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" Aramis asked, and d'Artagnan turned back to translate, though he hesitated. "What?"

"I haven't spoken Italian in ten years," d'Artagnan scowled, suddenly defensive. "Give me a moment to think of the words, would you."

Aramis made a face in Porthos' direction, who just stared back at his friend with varying degrees of disapproval and amusement. It was hard to determine which was greater.

"_Sapete che potrebbe essere…?" _D'Artagnan winced through, and Signora Bonacelli canted her head.

"_L'ultima volta che l'ho visto era sul lato della strada che è stata trovata su."_

"The last time she saw him he was on the side of the road she was found on," d'Artagnan reported.

"Well why should we help this woman?" Louis suddenly asked, not unkindly but somewhat petulantly. "She isn't anything to us, she's just some...Italian."

"Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said, and it almost sounded like a rebuke, "she is a woman, and she is in France. I believe it right to give her some respect; she is a guest on French soil."

"You know, if it was anyone else speaking to me in that way, I would have them hanged," Louis informed gravely.

D'Artagnan held his gaze.

"Fine, fine!" Louis dismissed, flipping his hand at them. "Find the son if you so wish, Tréville. It matters not to me. But don't let your Musketeers stray far, lest I need them. Actually," and Louis all at once sounded delighted, "I'm going on a hunt tomorrow, just around that area- Gascony has always been such fertile hunting ground. I'd like to stay a few days. Why not escort me there, kill two birds with one bullet?"

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Tréville bowed, "we'll be sure to arrive promptly and readily." And, just as quickly, he ushered his Musketeers out. D'Artagnan gave Signora Bonacelli a lasting look, something kind and gentle hidden in its depths as he reached down and brushed a kiss to first her left, then her right cheek, and she clung to his face as she returned them.

"_Rimani al sicuro,"_ she whispered to him, and he kissed the top of her hand.

"_Cerchero`," _he whispered in return, and with her words echoing in his ears, followed his friends out to the courtyard.

"What did she say to you?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan didn't answer.

o~_I moschettieri_~o

The four of them saddled up at the Musketeer Garrison and rode out in a party of ten, none of them quite in the mood for small talk as they made their way to the palace in the pre-dawn air. D'Artagnan himself couldn't stop remembering Signora's words from last night and, try as he might to dismiss it, his mother's song was determinedly stuck in his head. It was quietly annoying and made him irritable only because it was so distracting, and it was a song he had only heard in the back of his mind for ten years. To have it at the forefront of his thoughts was disconcerting and slightly upsetting, rousing memories that d'Artagnan had carefully tucked away.

In truth, he was also trying to distract himself from the fact they were returning to Gascony, right on the borders of his farmland. He wondered if, perhaps, the King might permit him to visit some of his siblings- he was sure his sisters would appreciate the visit, if not the familiar company. As it was, the King would most likely forbid it.

"So you know Italian," Aramis finally spoke, pulling his horse alongside d'Artagnan's. The younger man kept his face carefully neutral despite the darkness that came before dawn, aware that Aramis likely couldn't see his face.

"I do."

Silence for a beat. "From where?"

"My mother."

"But...how? Was she- well, obviously she was Italian, but...what happened?" Aramis seemed determined to pry those closet doors open, didn't he?

"She died."

Aramis finally seemed to get the hint that d'Artagnan didn't want to talk about his skeleton past, instead turning his attention to Porthos, starting up a story about when he had wooed an Italian seamstress and how she was the most enchanting thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Every woman you're infatuated with at the time is the most enchanting," Porthos snorted, and Aramis shook his head, sweeping his hat.

"Alas, you are mistaken! She was truly the moon in the sky, my friend. I wish you could've seen her."

"Chances are you were done with her by the time you even thought of me," Porthos laughed, and Aramis scowled at him. There was silence for a time as they awaited the King, and further silence as their monarch struck up a conversation with Tréville, something involving the way one could track and hunt more efficiently without an escort. The Musketeers were quiet for a time, Aramis relapsing back into sleepiness without inane chatter to keep his mind preoccupied, and he was looking more likely to tip from his saddle any moment.

D'Artagnan would laugh when it happened.

But later, when it did, d'Artagnan couldn't find it in himself to get his lips to so much as twitch.

o~_I moschettieri_~o

D'Artagnan, it seemed, had finally managed to move on from his soreness towards Aramis, and was not staring blankly at the treeline, calmly lost in thought. Perhaps too calmly, Porthos admitted, to truly be completely over what had happened, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

The King eagerly dragged them out for the aforementioned hunt in the early morning, the late autumn air a welcome thing out of the bustle of Paris. Porthos wasn't complaining, of course, but the crisp air did burn a little as he breathed it in and Aramis was swaying drastically on his horse, eyes at half mast. If Porthos didn't know better, he wouldn't have felt such sympathy for his friend (who had already tipped from his saddle once today, thank you). As it was, the love of a woman was not what kept his friend awake half the night- this time, the nightmares had been his bedtime companion.

It was the peace of the morning that had them all off guard, Porthos decided later, though he wasn't to know that yet. The sun was barely slipping through the trees, making dapples of light flicker across the leaf strewn ground, the hooves of their horses barely clomping, the wind gently tugging on their clothes. It was tranquil.

It wasn't unlike any other day, unfortunately, and that was what should have put them all immediately on guard. There never was a calm day- and on the rare occasions they started out as so, it never lasted long.

Shouts and shots rang out louder than thunder and Porthos watched out of the corner of his eye as Aramis jolted fully awake and rolled off his horse, dragging d'Artagnan down with him. They landed with a harsh thud and scrambled to their feet as more shots roared through the air, whizzing past Porthos' head as he pulled his own pistol free- Athos was already firing in retaliation, screaming something at Aramis about d'Artagnan and he, and Porthos quickly aimed and fired and Aramis' hair trembled as the ball flew past it and lodged itself in the head of the man behind him. Aramis didn't waste the few precious moments it would take to check- only reloaded and took out another of the appearing men dashing out of the forest around them.

"The King!" Athos was shouting, "where's the King?!"

_Good question_, Porthos thought to himself, glancing around and covering his brothers' backs, taking out another bandit about to sever Treville's head from his neck just in time.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis was demanding- "where is d'Artagnan?!"

This offered enough pause for Porthos' heart to skip a beat and he furthered his search, his eyes scanning the forest around them. The men were depleting in numbers despite more simply spawning at the treeline, but the Musketeers were also losing fighters. They had been a small party of ten- Porthos and the other three of their quartet included- and they had lost maybe four or five other men. Only one recruit and Treville remained standing, and still bandits surged forth.

Porthos only had half a second to himself before he heard Aramis' garbled noise of pain, and turned quickly enough to see him falling to his knees.

Enraged, a shout pulled its way free from his lips and he charged, knocking Aramis' attacker from his feet and stomping on his dominant wrist, satisfied when he heard the loud crack. The bandit howled in pain and spat something foreign at him- probably an insult, though Porthos wasn't concerned about what it truly meant.

He'd heard enough Spanish from Aramis- this was different.

Italian?

"PORTHOS ON YOUR LEFT-" Athos yelled from across the clearing-turned-battleground, and Porthos whirled his fist around and caught his potential murderer in the face with the barrel of his gun, sending the shorter and darker skinned man sprawling. Growling, he went to fire another shot-

And his gun clicked.

He needed to reload.

Plunging his fingers into his pocket, he searched around a few seconds in vain for another ball before giving up and abandoning his pistol to the ground, unsheathing his rapier.

"Porthos," Treville called, his voice flat.

Porthos swore as he turned around, coming to face the exact thing he'd dreaded.

D'Artagnan's young recruit friend Aubin lay dead, unseeing eyes staring at the sky. He lay in a pool of his own blood, his throat still languidly bleeding from where it had been slit.

Porthos' eyes flickered to Aramis, who was half conscious and had blood leaking down his temple and the side of his face- undoubtedly from a nasty cut hidden by his hair. Athos' hand was twisted, all his fingers at an awkward angle and crookedly bent. Treville himself had a few scratches here and there, a rather painful looking one at his hip, oozing blood into his clothing.

"Drop your weapons," the man holding Aramis snarled, grabbing a fistful of the Musketeer's hair and stretching his head back until Aramis uttered a short cry. "Or he'll end up like that _stronzetto _over there." He jerked his head in Aubin's direction and procured a dagger, pressing it to Aramis' exposed throat.

Porthos didn't know what a _stronzetto _was, but he reckoned it wasn't particularly nice.

He must not have complied fast enough, because the Italian pressed the blade to Aramis' skin harder, drawing a few beads of blood. "Okay, okay!" He growled, and threw his rapier down. He wasn't sure where d'Artagnan or the King were, but he didn't glance about. Just stuck his hands in the air and waited.

Sure enough, someone appeared from behind to roughly seize his wrists and wrench them into an impossible position behind his back, and his shoulder gave a loud crack as it popped from its socket. Swallowing a grunt and glaring over his shoulder, Porthos was forced to his knees and dragged, thrown down aside Aramis, who wasn't looking so good. Blood made his face look chalky, Spaniard skin nearly white.

Porthos jammed his uninjured shoulder into Aramis' chest to keep him upright, nudging him with his chin. "Aramis...c'mon. Stay awake."

Aramis didn't respond and Porthos watched as the Italians- about thirty in total, though there truly were only three that looked to be in charge- retreat to the horses to scavenge, and only once he was assured they were distracted did he allow his gaze to flutter to the treeline. There, through a patch of green, Porthos thought he could see wild hair framing a tanned, distinctly Gascon face.

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_Woohoo! A lot happened this chapter, I feel like. I'm sorry if it's a little clipped- hooray for writer's block making my life impossible- but I do hope you enjoyed and that you can't wait for next chapter! I don't know when exactly I'll have it out to you all, but I'll stumble through somehow. Thanks again for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! **Again check out my profile for the AWESOME fanart Lordandempressdoodle kindly made us,** thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts, and I hope your day is fantastic!_

_**Sarah**: Thanks so much! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and hope you like this one just as much!_

_**Moniker**: Aww, thank you! :) Nah, it's not annoying to me- especially because I know how it is! You will attempt that fanart? OMG THANK YOU! I'm so excited. Musketeer Musical I can't reveal much on...but it's in progress, don't you worry. Thank you for your understanding about the marshmallow prompt- and I will ALWAYS be willing to mess up history for marshmallows. Always. No no- thank you for letting me know! I wasn't sure which he died in, so I appreciate the logic :) Oh thank you! You guys and your compliments always make me so happy! Pfft are you kidding rambling is like my favorite thing I love it. Have you watch the season finale yet? It premiered for me over here, I don't know why- maybe on different viewing schedules? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter too!_


	38. Soldatino Pt 2- la ragione per cui vivo

_Hey y'all! This chapter- wow- was really in the mood to be written, so yay chapter! **IN THIS CHAPTER, I do mention something about Sicilian dialect**\- please note: I am not translating into Sicilian dialect. I would, but Google Translate only gets you so far, but that's what they're speaking (because his mother was from Sicily, and different regions of Italy have different dialects). I just thought I should let y'all know to clear up any confusion that might have occurred- yes, Italian as a written language is Italian, but there are several different spoken dialects- usually used locally. People from different regions can have difficulty understanding one another when speaking because of this. (Kinda funny, really.)_

_With that out of the way, onto the chapter!_

**_WARNING: May be gory for some towards the end. Description of wounds. Also, mentions of throw up- no actual description._**

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D'Artagnan was still in a sour mood.

Aramis had seemed to sense that d'Artagnan was having troubled thoughts over something, because he didn't leave the younger Musketeer's side. Part of d'Artagnan- the angry, irrational part- wanted to rear up in defense at this treatment; he wasn't _fragile _and he most certainly did _not _need watching from anyone, _least of all_ Aramis. And yet here they were- d'Artagnan quietly contemplative and Aramis tilting in his saddle. Side by side.

D'Artagnan occasionally reached over to steady his swaying friend. He wasn't sure which was more irritating- an Aramis who could barely _keep himself up _or an Aramis who couldn't _shut up, _but he reckoned that it was pretty close.

Aubin had finally been invited on a mission, d'Artagnan noted a mite more cheerfully, and was practically bouncing with excitement. Although it was fairly simple and hardly dashing-into-a-blaze-of-gunfire action packed, Aubin seemed not to care, eyes wide and face joyful. It made d'Artagnan spirits lighter as the sun began to crawl across the sky, the dawn fast approaching.

"Aw, why the long face, d'Artagnan?" Aubin said with a smirk. "You aren't a horse, you know."

"Aubin," he replied, exasperated, "you have the same four jokes. If you think I'm going to laugh after the first twenty times you tell it, you're mistaken."

Aubin's lips twisted into a faux pout, eyes glittering with mischief. "Maybe I know that, eh?"

D'Artagnan just shook his head.

The peace of the morning had knocked him off guard. In Paris, there was always someone about in the wee hours before sunrise, something to be done, somewhere to be. Here, within nature, not even the creatures of the brush had begun to stir. It was strangely tranquil to d'Artagnan- used to the constant movement that comes with the youthful- and it set him...not off balance, but perhaps off kilter slightly.

It happened so suddenly d'Artagnan didn't even have time to blink; one moment he was atop his horse and the next he wasn't. Aramis was shouting and shooting and there were Musketeers running and Athos was yelling and the King was screaming (the King, the King) and he needed to get the King to safety and there was firing and a hailstorm of bullets and screaming (so much, so much screaming) and lights and puffs of smoke and shouting and cursing and _get him, get the King, get the King you useless brigands-_

He crawled forward on his belly, using his elbows and knees to dig into the soft, dewy mud and pull himself further; Musketeers and bandits alike slammed into the ground near him and around him, making it impossible to gauge friend from foe; there was so much noise and d'Artagnan needed to find the King, where was the King, _where is the King-_

He turned and scrambled to his feet just in time to avoid a toppling horse, rolling away and summersaulting over a fallen Musketeer, looking over his shoulder to check who it was, his legs bent at an angle and desperately looking for his companions- _Aramis, where is Aramis he fell with me-_

Pain suddenly exploded in his left leg and d'Artagnan was flung to his hands and knees as he felt his bones give way with an ugly sound; the pain blossomed into his hip and his toes, up his whole left side, locking his shoulder- he grunted and dug his fingernails into the dirt, burying his face there and trying to muffle his shout as fire erupted, setting his body aflame, his muscles bunching, the agony of it making him writhe-

He flipped himself onto his back and forced himself up onto his feet, gritting his teeth as his blood boiled from the wound and crept across his skin, ignoring it as he dragged himself forward, his leg completely and utterly useless, unmoving. He forced his head down as shots rang in his ears, whizzing past his head and making his hair flutter with how close they came; he stumbled over something and turned to see what it was, the pain making his stomach toss-

_Aubin_.

His throat was slit, blood oozing lazily from the wound, eyes staring at the sky, mouth slightly open.

D'Artagnan threw up.

Then kept going.

After what felt like ages but had taken only moments d'Artagnan finally struggled his way to the King, who was cowering behind a fallen horse and was cradling his head in his hands. "Your Majesty," he gritted, seizing his monarch by the upper arm and shoving him towards the treeline, "come with me, _now."_

King Louis didn't have enough control of his fear to acknowledge what d'Artagnan had just said, just frantically nodded and hurried to the cover the evergreens provided, shots echoing in the air behind him. D'Artagnan trembled with pain and a secret fear for his friends' lives, glanced over his shoulder at the battleground and then dove into the bushes, clamping his lips closed as pain tried to crawl its way up his throat.

At almost precisely the same moment, the firing ceased.

Struggling into a position where he could peer through the bushes and barely make out what was going on, he watched as Porthos threw his weapon to the dirt, glaring at his captors as they yanked Aramis' hair hard enough for him to cry out, snarling at them as they threw Porthos to his knees.

Something vicious and protective burned within him, fire lashing through his veins and electrifying his blood, something inside him rearing up and snarling _torture bleed hurt kill protect protect protect, _something he forcibly smothered and swallowed down, trapping it in the dark confines from whence it had arisen.

"What are-"

D'Artagnan slapped a hand over his King's mouth, wincing as the Italians turned and gazed at the treeline, holding his breath as they came closer, twisting his lips as the fire in his leg flared to life. The Italian bandits, however, only seemed concerned with discussing their plans in low, indistinguishable tones (low enough that even d'Artagnan's keen ears couldn't make out the words). Only three of them seemed to be in charge, the rest- about thirty, including the three leaders- but too many for d'Artagnan to take on alone, much less lame and with the King in his protection.

"When I say, we're going to move that way," d'Artagnan jerked his head to the right, away from the road and into the opposite side of the forest the brigands had appeared from. "Keep your head low, your mouth shut, and follow my lead." He didn't wait to see the King's response to being spoken to in such a crass manner, narrowing his eyes and waiting until it seemed the bandits were paying the least attention. "I'll be by in a minute- go!"

The King needed no further prompting, gaining his feet and creeping as quickly as he could through the underbrush, head low and as quietly as possibly. D'Artagnan had to admit that the King was rather cool-headed in a crisis, and had no trouble following orders. (D'Artagnan thanked whatever deity made this possible.)

He stared out into Porthos' face, willing him to look up, away from Aramis and understand that d'Artagnan was alive- and going to save them and figure out this whole mess. Obviously these bandits were the same that had taken Signora Bonacelli's son (as there were not many Italian bandits wandering the countryside border between France and Spain).

(To be honest, d'Artagnan was just grateful they were all from Sicily and had the same dialect as he did. Seemed fate was on his side, after all.)

Porthos turned and they locked eyes for a moment. Imperceptibly, Porthos nodded.

D'Artagnan clawed his way to his feet and heaved himself over the King, jerking his head, and together they faded into the deep foliage.

o~_il moschettiere e il re_~o

Night fell.

It snuck up on the King and his protector, circled around them like a shark would its prey; one moment it was light, and then suddenly dusk had descended. D'Artagnan glanced about wearily, ignoring the stab of pain up his left side as he shifted; the King danced on the balls of his feet, glued to d'Artagnan's side.

"Why have we stopped?" He inquired, voice quivering, and d'Artagnan sent him a withering look he couldn't quite check in time.

"We're going to climb a tree," he informed, hissing as he leaned against the bark and alleviated some of the weight from his leg. "And then sleep."

"In the tree?!"

_No, we're going to climb a tree for no reason. _

"Yes, in the tree," d'Artagnan said.

Louis blinked at him. "But..it's a tree," he said.

_I have the patience of a saint. If they don't saint me after this, I'm writing a formal complaint about the whole bloody religion._

"Yes," d'Artagnan said, "that it is. And we're going to climb it, and sleep in it." He stared at his monarch. "Unless you'd rather take your chances on the ground?"

"Erm- no, no," Louis was quick to say. "The tree seems...suitable."

D'Artagnan stared.

_And if I'm not made the _patron _saint of patience, I'm going on a massacre._

He quickly undid his belt from his trouser loops and roped it around the tree, then glanced down at his leg. He'd taken to ignoring it for the most part, doing his best not to look or even think about it, but now he had no choice- he couldn't climb in this state. He knew he couldn't- not if he wanted his leg to heal properly.

But he damn well wasn't asking for help.

Gritting his teeth and solidifying his will, d'Artagnan sucked in a breath and moved, agony flaring all the way up the left side of his body as he braced himself. Then, clamping his eyes shut, he did the same with the other leg. His jaw creaked and his teeth began to ache.

He made his way painstakingly slowly up the tree, grunting and hissing through his teeth, pushing through the whirlwind of torment his body was going through, a day of walking on an injured leg finally catching up to him. It hurt so bad for a moment he feared he may faint- but then there was a branch, and he could use his upper arms, and he used the rest of what little strength he had left in his lower body to launch himself towards it, pulling himself over.

He had never been more exhausted in his entire life.

"...D'Artagnan," the King called timidly upon not seeing him move for several seconds. "D'Artagnan?"

"Here- do you think you can get yourself up?" The Musketeer tossed the King his belt, who caught it with unsteady hands.

"I…" the King trailed off. "May need some assistance."

D'Artagnan sighed, his body wracked with fine trembles, the pain finally beginning to truly take its toll on him as his determination wavered. "I can only hoist you up the last few feet- the rest you have to do yourself, Your Majesty." At Louis' dubious expression, d'Artagnan forced his voice to soften, the quaver in it nearly giving him away. "You _can_ do this, Your Majesty."

Something in Louis' face hardened as he looped the belt around the tree, grasping hold of both ends. He braced himself as d'Artagnan did and began to haul himself up the trunk, sliding the belt up the bark as he went, losing his grip time and time again but managing to save himself before he fell ten feet. He was finally close enough for d'Artagnan to grab, and he nearly slipped from d'Artagnan's fingers, for a panicked moment twelve feet in the air the King losing his footing-

D'Artagnan's belt slithered to the ground, and the King sat beside d'Artagnan on the wide branch.

"Come on," the Musketeer murmured, limbs heavy. "We have to climb."

"_Climb?!"_ The King's voice had acquired a shrillness.

"Yes," d'Artagnan said. "Right now we're still in the line of sight. We gain some height and we won't be able to be seen through the leaves. Come on." Grasping the nearest sturdy branch and strengthening his soul for the climb, d'Artagnan glanced back at his monarch- and sighed. "I take it you've never climbed a tree before, Your Majesty." It wasn't a question.

"Er," Louis said, "no."

"Just follow me- use the same branches I do. If you grab the wrong one and it gives way, you'll fall."

D'Artagnan didn't need to see King Louis' face. He just clenched his jaw and began picking his way through the branches one by one, testing for rotted insides and flimsy support, coaxing his timid King all the while, the pain in his leg making him dizzy and unable to think.

Finally they were high enough- twenty feet from the forest floor, give or take, and d'Artagnan felt reassured enough that they couldn't be seen that he settled upon another wide branch, supporting himself against the tree. After a moment, Louis grasped his hand and pulled himself the rest of the way, splayed out across the branch and panting from exertion. D'Artagnan snuck a glance at his leg, gently dragging up his trousers. Louis seemed too drained to notice what the Musketeer was doing, and any color in d'Artagnan's face abandoned him, leaving him pale and gaunt.

"I am never," Louis choked, "doing that again."

"We still have to get down," d'Artagnan pointed out shakily, and Louis glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"This is all your fault," Louis said, his nose upturned. "You and the other Musketeers. If you hadn't insisted on finding that foolish Italian boy we'd never be in this mess." D'Artagnan bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. "And you know what else? Tréville was a fool to even agree to a hunt on the Gascon border, especially because of the tension between Spain and France at the moment. I should be surrounded by guards in the citadel, safe in the palace, but no- you Musketeers always seem to disappoint me in more ways than one."

D'Artagnan's jaw cracked.

Louis stared on impassively, lips pursed. "I'm quite displeased, d'Artagnan- especially with you."

It simply didn't matter that d'Artagnan had been the one to save the King's life, nor did it matter that the King himself had been the one who had insisted upon a hunt at the Gascon border. It was simply that Louis needed a scapegoat, and d'Artagnan was the only man available.

But d'Artagnan's temper, at the moment, refused to be tried.

"Listen," he snarled, his tone scorching with wrath, "_I_ am not the one who invited you along to hunt. _I _am not the one who killed an innocent man after granting him clemency, _nor _am I the one who almost refused to search for the son of a woman who had fled to the King of France for aid. I have assisted you to the best of my ability, protected you, laid my life down for yours, and sworn my sword to you. Because you are a king does not make you a good man, nor does it mark you unable to help those in need. I am not a king, so perhaps I am not well versed in how they should behave. But certainly they should help their subjects when in need and be wise enough to claim blame when it belongs to them." His voice was dangerously low, his eyes alight with a fire so bright it could have burnt the solemnest of souls.

"_You have no right to speak to me as such!"_ Louis hissed, his own eyes aflame with predatory power and distorted justice. "I will have your head for those words, _Musketeer!"_ The title was smeared as if it were the dirtiest insult.

"If we survive this," d'Artagnan told him, "you may take it willingly. I will not fight you."

The rage seemed to abruptly drain from the monarch at these simple, admissive words, and he slumped back upon the trunk, glared at d'Artagnan from the corner of his eye, and moved to the next branch, refusing to look him in the face.

D'Artagnan no longer cared. He would lose his leg anyway.

His bone was stark white and gleaming in the quickly fading light, the skin of his thigh parted around it and stained with burgundy blood, unable to support his weight as muscle and ligaments tore themselves to shreds with the excess movement.

Further down, it had happened twice more.

* * *

_Debbie: Thank you so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying it and I hoped you liked this chapter just as much!_

_Nellied: That's exciting! Italian is such a pretty language- I myself am learning it. I struggle my way though :) Hope you enjoyed this chapter too!_

_Guest: Thank you for the review and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_

_Sarah: Thank you! Italian really is an interesting language, especially the varying dialects. I think it's all very fascinating. Hope you liked this update!_

_Violet Eternity: Thanks for the review and hope you enjoyed!_

_Alright- thank you so much for all the reviews, favorites and follows, please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt, and I hope you enjoyed!_


	39. Soldatino Pt 3- non ti scordar di me

_Hello my faithful friends! I apologize profusely for what happened this chapter. Let me explain in a little more depth: I forced myself to write the rest of last chapter the other night around 11:00 PM and I thought to myself "They've waited long enough, let me just post this!" But around twenty minutes later I realized that what I had written was a) not coherent, b) switched from present to past tense, and c) didn't advance plot, at all. _

_It's fixed now, and hopefully those who were unfortunate enough to see the first version enjoy this one far more! Thank you for your patience!_

**_Warning: Mentions of throw up, nausea, broken bones, slight gore, head wounds, and violence._**

* * *

Noise.

He couldn't take it- he couldn't take the noise. There was just so much- it was just so _loud_. He didn't know what was happening anymore- he had been looking for d'Artagnan, _d'Artagnan_\- where was d'Artagnan?

He had to find d'Artagnan, he had- _oh_, his head. He couldn't tell- had he been hit?

It certainly felt like he'd been hit.

His skull felt like it was crumbling into itself, crushing his brain, slowly suffocating him, the air leaving his lungs-

Then something jerked his head back by his hair, and the sharp pain flared so hard that Aramis' vision went blurry as he looked up at the cloudy sky, and he tried to raise his arms to defend himself-

Before he could they were roughly yanked behind his back and tied with a bit of harsh rope, and no matter how hard Aramis tugged, he couldn't get free. He couldn't- he couldn't. Good Lord. _His head._

He couldn't think, he just-

"Aramis, mate, you've gotta come back.."

_Who-? _He couldn't see. It was dark.

"C'mon. Just gimme some way to tell you're alright, eh?"

When had his eyes even shut?

He dared to open them, cringing at the crusted feeling around them and the odd rustle of fabric against his eyelids as he shut them again, disliking the feeling it gave his head. "D'Artagnan?" He asked, going to reach out- but there was resistance. Were his arms bound? They were ambushed, and he'd grabbed d'Artagnan as he'd toppled from his horse. _Where is d'Artagnan? _

"Nah mate, s'me- s'Porthos."

Oh. _Oh_. Porthos.

"Yeah; 'm right here, Aramis."

He hadn't realized he was speaking aloud.

Oh, _his head-_

"Yeah, you were hit pretty hard," Porthos said, and Aramis felt his bangs moved out of his eyes. They were shut, so it didn't really matter, but it was a soothing feeling against his searing skin. The pain in his head dulled slightly- enough that he could think a little clearer.

Porthos said something that Aramis couldn't catch. "What?"

Porthos hesitated, and when he spoke it was in a whisper. "I said d'Artagnan's safe. I saw 'im grab the King an' run, so hopefully the King's alright an' d'Artagnan's on his way." A pause. "You can't mention 'im, though, Aramis; they don't know that he's gotten away."

Who didn't know d'Artagnan'd escaped?

_Where was d'Artagnan, then?_

"Sh!" Tréville warned, and Aramis' heart sank. He'd hoped the Captain had escaped too. "We must converse quietly if we'll do so at all. We could be discovered at any moment."

Something jerked his head to the side, and once he was looking for it, he recognized the jostling movement under him as the annoying, jagged gait of a carriage. Wincing as the wheel rolled over a particularly large rock, he endured the agony of his head as it was moved, expecting a harsh landing and preparing himself for the pain-

It was softer than he'd predicted. Maybe his head was on a pillow. No...was his head in someone's lap?

If they were in a carriage, the sweeping of his hair made sense, too. The wind could do that- especially if, judging by the way his own wrists were bound, his friends' hands were bound also. Assuming the carriage was one without windows, and- judging from the light that had so pierced his skull when he'd opened his eyes- the curtains weren't drawn. Hopefully one of them was paying attention to the scenery.

"We're blindfolded," Porthos said, and Aramis sighed. He was still speaking aloud, then.

"Do we know who's captured us?" He paused, and lowered his voice. He couldn't really hear himself speaking, and was afraid he would be too loud. "I would have assumed it was for the King, but you say he's managed to escape with d'Artagnan. Why keep us? We're of no use to them."

"Dunno," Porthos said. Aramis felt more than saw his shrug. "Maybe they think they can ransom us."

"Lower your voices, for God's sake!" Tréville hissed.

Aramis grit his teeth and tried to do so, but it was difficult when he had almost no control of his voice at the moment. "Do we know who's bound us, then?"

"We've been captured by what seems to be an Italian gang," Athos said crisply.

Oh, an Italian gang.

...That made almost _no _sense.

"We're not in Italy," Aramis pointed out.

"Very astute observation," Athos responded, and Aramis could almost _see _his unimpressed expression. "No, we're not in Italy- we're somewhere in Gascony, I'd say, though I can't be sure."

"Have you been paying attention to the countryside?"

A sudden hush fell upon them all, palpable tension bleeding into the air. It was a few moments before Porthos answered, and when he did so, Aramis was alarmed to hear worry tinging his voice. "Aramis...I told ya we were blindfolded, remember?"

...No. No he didn't.

Porthos cursed. "There's nothing we can do about it now," Athos said calmly, and Aramis felt his head shift with someone's legs. Oh, so it was Athos' lap. "Just like we can do nothing until d'Artagnan comes for us without potentially compromising he and the King."

"Don' worry," Porthos assured, and Aramis wasn't sure if it was because he was just as concerned as Aramis was or if his friend had somehow felt the jolt of panic that streaked through him at the thought. "D'Artagnan's got a plan. If 'e's anything, 'e's clever; I'm sure he's stagin' a rescue as we speak."

"How will he know where we are?" Aramis asked quietly in reply, and there was no answer. How would d'Artagnan find them, then, if he had made off in the opposite direction; if he had to protect the King? There was no way they could possible communicate with him, and they wouldn't be able to leave any clear tracks or clues for him to find because they weren't on foot. They had no idea where they were or where they were going, and-

Oh, so _that _was why things were so dark. They were blindfolded as well.

His head swam.

He was going to be sick.

"Be sick that way," Porthos said from his left, and Tréville's indignant response was enough for Aramis to determine which direction his friend had meant.

If they were blindfolded, why had the light hurt his eyes so much?

Oh wait- that had been beforehand. When they were first captured, and he'd been forced to look up. Or...maybe not?

Porthos exhaled. "It'll be fine," he said gruffly, shifting his position. "Like I said," he lowered his voice further, so soft that Aramis had to strain to hear what he was saying, "d'Artagnan's got a plan, trust me. He's a stubborn thing."

Athos hummed in agreement. Aramis didn't respond.

"Why don't we something?" He suggested after a while, gaining the attention of his companions. "We could fight, we could-"

"They have our weapons," Athos said.

"...Okay," Aramis continued. "We've worked with less. We could overtake them and-"

"There are thirty of them and four of us. Three of us, really, if we're taking your injuries into consideration."

"I can fight."

"You can barely move, Aramis." Athos sighed. "The only logical choice of action would be to allow them to take us. Don't," he said sharply, and Aramis assumed that Porthos had gone to say something. "You've said it yourself: D'Artagnan is coming. Wouldn't it be a shame if he arrived with a cavalry and we'd saved ourselves? I imagine he'd be quite disappointed."

"Pfft. Understatement of this century, Athos, surely."

"You know how he gets."

"All too well. He takes after you far too much."

Aramis didn't remember falling asleep to his friends' banter, but he must've, because when he opened his eyes he was being roughly seized by his arms and pulled to his feet, the movement summoning the pain in his head faster than he could have ever thought possible. The very pores of his _skin _hurt.

He must not have complied fast enough to their captor's shoves because he was pushed so hard that his knees slammed into the ground, the feeling of falling gathering the pain and thrusting it into his stomach and for a moment, Aramis was okay-

But then he keeled to the side, surged forward, and threw up.

The bile burned as he coughed it out, scorching his throat and making his eyes water and he _couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe_, but just as it finally stopped he was yanked back to his feet and _thrown_, his chin smashing against the ground. The burst of agony inside his skull was enough to make him double over and begin to heave once more- but nothing came up, and he barely had enough time to gather a fresh breath before someone seized him by his hair and _pulled_. A garbled shout ripping itself from his lips as he scrambled to his feet, his hands jerked uselessly behind his back as he tripped and sprawled against cobblestone, the skin on the bottom of his chin shredding open as he slammed it again.

There was a sudden explosion of sound that nearly shattered his eardrums as Porthos burst into struggles, a snarl wrested from his lips. Dimly, through the haze of torment that had lodged itself in his limbs, he thought he heard his name being shouted, but when he managed to focus enough on what he thought it was the wind had carried it far away from him.

Grasped by the scruff of his neck, Aramis was dragged from wherever they had been- perhaps a courtyard, but Aramis couldn't have been sure- and hauled down a flight of stairs as if they were playthings instead of people, carelessly tossed forth. When Aramis heard the scuffle of someone- likely Athos- losing their footing, he heard someone else lightly laugh, as if the whole thing was particularly amusing.

Blinded, they were manhandled into what Aramis assumed was a cell and he was thrust against a wall, pain ricocheting down his spine as his arms, tied behind his back, were suddenly wrenched above his head.

He couldn't contain the shout of agony that was wrestled from his lips as his shoulders protested with a loud _snap, _chained above his head and fastened so that he was dangling a few inches from the ground, supported completely at his wrists. The fragile bones creaked and cried but, miraculously, held, and Aramis' bloody and torn chin dropped against his chest, his lungs fluttering faintly to draw in air.

Aramis' body jerked as he threw up again (most likely all over whomever was in front of him) and the amount of pain that filled him was so foreign that he didn't know what to do, he didn't know what do he didn't know what to do- there was just _pain pain pain pain_ and panic and Porthos and Athos and being trapped and d'Ar-

His head snapped to the side as he was punched in the face, and blood trickled from his dully throbbing nose.

"Aramis! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Sounds of a scuffle, an grisly lashing sound as Porthos was struck multiple times, the rattle of chains as Porthos' own arms were given the same treatment. He couldn't remember if Porthos' hands had been bound in front of him or behind. The bones of his wrists grated together.

"'M," he coughed, and the panging in his brain was almost unbearable, "'m alrigh'."

He wasn't sure what happened next, the fumes of misery distorting reality, but when he managed to refocus their captors were gone, and they were silent. He wasn't sure if they'd been chained in the same matter, and couldn't muster enough energy to ask. His chin throbbed.

"We can't jus' sit here," Porthos grunted, and there was a scraping sound. "Not like this, Athos."

Aramis' eyes were still shut. Or maybe his vision was going. He didn't know.

When Athos responded, his voice had a strained quality to it Aramis had never heard before. "We have to, Porthos."

"Did you even hear me?" Porthos hissed. "Do you know what they've done to Aramis 'n me?! We're strung up by our _wrists! Both _our shoulders are _dislocated!"_

"Porthos!" Tréville. Strained. Sharp. "That's enough."

"I just can't sit here and wait to-"

"Sh!" Athos suddenly demanded. "I hear voices."

Immediately, everyone was silent. Above their heads came the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of footsteps pacing back and forth. Aramis couldn't hear words, but he could hear the dull buzz of murmuring floating through the floor. He stretched his ankles and waited until the ground brushed against his toes, alleviating some pressure from his wrists. He could feel them swelling.

"They're discussing us," Athos said quietly. "They're repeating _il re_\- the King." Another few moments of pause as Athos listened. Aramis' breathing was ragged as his lungs struggled to inhale air. He wondered if he'd broken a few ribs? "Now they're speaking of Spain. I think they're saying _il capo_\- employer." Quiet; three sets of footsteps. "They've walked away."

"How do you know?" Porthos grunted, and there was another shuffling sound. Maybe Porthos, too, was trying to reach the floor. "I didn' know you spoke 'talian."

"I don't, not really. Not fluently. I know certain phrases."

"From where?"

"That's not important right now," said Athos. "This doesn't make sense. Why would an Italian gang- on the Gascon border- be hired by Spain to capture the King of France?"

"Perhaps as a diversion," Tréville finally spoke. "If the Italian Mafia was the one to kidnap the King instead of Spain, France would be unable to declare war; especially if Spain managed to successfully cover their tracks."

"But how would-" Aramis paused as a wave of nausea crashed over him. "How would the Italians even get to the Gascon border? Going through Spain?"

"I don't see why not," Athos said. "Especially if Spain was the one employing them. The real question is that if they were aiming for the King, how would they know that he'd be on a hunt in Gascony this morning?"

Silence.

"That means there's a Spanish spy in the Court," Tréville said with an exhaustion that ran deep into his bones. "I doubt there's one in the Musketeers. We don't have many Spaniards, and the soldiers that accompanied us today were handpicked and had been here for years."

A thought floated at the front of Aramis' mind and nearly slipped past him, but it was something so small, so insignificant, but… "Aubin."

"What?"

Aramis swallowed. "Aubin," he said. "D'Artagnan's friend. He was a- a recruit. This was his first mission."

Aramis pictured the frown on Tréville's face when he next spoke. "D'Artagnan is usually a remarkable judge of character; do you really believe he'd befriend someone as such?"

"Lad's also got a forgiving nature, though," Porthos pointed out tiredly. "If 'e thought Aubin'd changed, he'd have overlooked somethin' like that."

"D'Artagnan would not endanger the lives of everyone by doing such a thing," Athos said sternly. "He either was not aware, or Aubin is not the correct lead. But it's the best- and only- we have so far."

"So they came in from the Spanish border, employed by the Spanish, and maybe there's a Spanish spy in France," Porthos said. "Wonder who's behind the whole thing."

"Things aren't always what they seem," Tréville said. "You forget about Rochefort."

"You believe he's lent a hand in this?" Athos asked sharply, and Tréville sighed.

"I wouldn't be surprised. Rochefort has always been like a snake, and has always managed to charm himself in- and out- of situations as he pleased. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he had a hand in this terrible business."

"But why?" Aramis suddenly asked. He had been quiet for a time. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"I have already told you to mind him because he is so skilled at deception. Even if he had been the one to commit murder in plain sight, he would find a way to convince the judge that _you _had been the orchestrator all along. I don't believe he spent all those years in a Spanish prison as a pure French soldier, and I certainly don't believe he's returned as one."

"You think he may be tryin' to kill the King?"

"I think so, yes," Tréville said. "But the way he had been going about it previous to this instance had led me to believe he was doing so gradually- it would have taken a number of years for him to create a rift between the King and Queen wide enough to take over the throne. I am unsure as to what could have prompted him to do something like this."

"We are overlooking a key factor in all of this," said Athos. "Signora Bonacelli."

"What about her?" asked Porthos, and he made a sound at the back of his throat.

"You don't believe it coincidental that an Italian woman claiming her son was attacked at the Gascon border came to Court pleading for the King's help right before we' were attacked by an Italian gang, do you?" Athos queried, and Aramis could feel the arch of his eyebrow.

"You may have a point there, Athos," Tréville said. "But hush now, all of you. I hear footsteps again."

"Someone's coming," Athos suddenly said, and the sound of a door opening above them drew Aramis from his thoughts. There were further pattering sounds as someone descended the stairs and came towards them, and a chinking noise as keys swung on a chain and were inserted into a lock.

Both parties- Musketeer and Italian- were silent, staring each other down without sight, intimidation tactics on both their parts. The Musketeers were wholly unafraid- perhaps dreading more pain, but not frightened. Aramis himself was filled with such sudden anger that it took him by surprise, rage coursing through his veins and electrifying his blood, fury licking his insides. "_WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"_ He finally snarled, fully expecting to be hit in the face and ready for it, ready to lash out with his legs-

But the next accented sentence drained the heat from him as soon as it had arrived, leaving a cold, frigid feeling in its wake.

"Where has your friend taken the King?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts/suggestions/ideas! _


	40. Soldatino Pt 4- io vegliero su di te

_Hey there internet! So I guess you guys weren't very pleased with me and my mix up, huh? Sorry about that, bruvs. The wonderful Aramis whump was kind of fun and finally happened, though, so that's an upside! :D Thank you to those who did review, didn't review, or sat there quietly reading- y'all are what keep the story alive! So I hope you guys enjoy this chapter more than the last._

**_Warning: Extreme depictions of wounds._**

* * *

Dawn came too fast.

D'Artagnan, for all his exhaustion, hadn't slept at all the night before, worry gnawing at him every time he closed his eyes. So he remained awake, scouting for enemies in the darkness, a silent guardian as the King slumbered beside him a few branches away.

After he was assured Louis was fully asleep, d'Artagnan had taken off the shirt under his jacket and pauldron and ripped it into strips, using the sturdiest branches he could find to bind his leg. He allowed the bones to poke out of the makeshift bandages only because he didn't have enough energy to force them back under his skin; he did lightly cover them, trying to keep them as clean as he could. It wasn't good by any means of the word, but it would do.

When the sun crested over the hillside in the distance, d'Artagnan leaned over and gently shook the King, waiting until he began to wake. "It's time to move," he said, his voice weighted and weary, and with a resigned sort of dread began to make his way down the tree, helping Louis with foot and handholds every now and then. When they finally reached the lowest branch, d'Artagnan's leg was bleeding anew but blessedly numb, though he wasn't sure if this was a good thing.

"Where will we go?" Louis inquired as d'Artagnan rest against the trunk to catch his breath. "We're in Gascon countryside, alone, _without an escort."_ The particular stress on these last words made d'Artagnan twitch in annoyance, though he said nothing. "There's nowhere to go."

"I have acquaintances in the area," d'Artagnan grunted as he sat down, keeping his leg straight as possible (which was a feat, considering the bones refused to stay in one place and were constantly shifting under his skin, making his leg look distorted and deformed). "But first," he paused for breath. "I need you to find four straight, sturdy sticks for me, as long as you can find."

D'Artagnan thought that perhaps the King would protest, especially with the way it had been demanded, but instead the monarch's gaze was drawn to his Musketeer's injured ligament- and all at once, Louis' face shifted. What once was annoyed and petulant grew taut with horror, drawn with the compassion of humanity- and he fell to his knees, hands hovering over the broken limb as if he wished to heal it. "Oh, goodness," he uttered in a sickened tone, and his face paled. "How have you-"

"Please," d'Artagnan said, and was ashamed that it came out strained. "Just go find what I've asked."

"I- yes," Louis said, expression distant with horror. "Yes, I'll- I'll be back, I'll-" he scrambled to his feet and made off, eyes fixated on the forest floor, boots prodding the leaves there as if looking for a hidden piece of wood.

"Just stay close," d'Artagnan called weakly, allowing himself to slump as the monarch wandered far enough away for him to have a bit of privacy. His face twisting in pain, d'Artagnan managed to maneuver himself so he was bent forward slightly, back still against the treetrunk. Reaching his arm towards his leg and wincing as it pulled on his ribs, d'Artagnan's fingertips hovered over the first gleaming, white bone, lightly trembling.

He collapsed back into his slumped position, breathing labored, his chest rising and falling erratically as he tried to calm his racing heart. Grabbing the edge of his jacket as his eyes flickered up to find the King, he shoved the leather between his teeth and bit down, taking a deep breath through his nose.

He hand returned to the first bone at his thigh, mopping up some of the blood to see better, and, assured Louis was far enough not to see, he closed his eyes.

Then _pressed_.

The sound that exploded past his lips couldn't have been human and the pain returned with a vengeance that d'Artagnan had never felt in all his life; biting down so hard his jaw ached, he pressed harder, the bone sinking back into his body with wet slurping sounds as it dragged against his slippery, blood slicked skin. Trembles wracking his whole body as he finally finished, his head lolled as his eyes rolled around in his head, trying desperately to keep the pain at bay so he could at least think.

He gave himself no recovery time, forcing himself up and to move his leg so that he was near the bone jutting out of the skin just below his knee and, biting down impossibly harder, he slammed his palm down.

He wasn't prepared for the burst of light that erupted behind his eyelids when he did so, his body arching, and in one terrible moment d'Artagnan was sure he would pass out. He had no such luck, and after a few agonizing moments had passed without the pain abating, d'Artagnan glanced down.

His leg was a mangled mess of blood and skin and bone, the one he had just forced back not having gone all the way through his skin again- so, with a haze settling over him like a cloud, he slowly pushed it until it was sucked back, his chest heaving dry, cracked breaths.

One more.

With a small keening sound he wrestled himself into a sitting position, vision blurred with tears and sweat, and the stark bone at his ankle received the same treatment.

When he was finished, he was bent to the ground, and he couldn't move even if he wanted to.

"I have th-" Louis' voice permeated through the smog of pain, and the clatter of sticks as they were dropped. Suddenly, smooth hands- uncalloused hands- were grasping him by the shoulders and gently sitting him up, tilting his head up. D'Artagnan's eyelids cracked open, but he didn't have enough energy to keep them that way.

"You need to- don't leave me," Louis said timidly, jostling him. His whole body protested, but no sound passed his lips. He didn't have the energy even for that. "Musketeer, don't- don't leave me, I demand you don't do this!" A pause; a frustrated huff. Then, "I am commanding you as your King to not leave me, d'Artagnan!"

It was his name that drew his attention, and d'Artagnan's eyes opened a sliver; enough to see Louis glaring at him.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, d'Artagnan heaved himself back to awareness, blinking the moisture from his eyes. Taking in a few deep breaths, he looked down and saw the sticks he'd needed at his feet, wide and sturdy and long enough to bind his whole leg, and he offered the King a feeble smile.

Unsteadily leaning forward, he positioned them as best he could against his leg, using the strips to fasten them into place and ignoring the pulse of constant pain that traversed through his body, he made them as tight as he dared and then sat back, clearing his throat.

The sun was rising faster now, and the creatures of the forest were beginning to come to life. D'Artagnan was so tired his very soul ached, but he didn't know whether or not the Italians that had attacked them would be returning, and he had to get the King to safety before he could ever consider implementing a plan to find Athos, Porthos, Aramis and Tréville.

Leaning on the tree to help get to his feet, d'Artagnan testing his weight on the leg. It burned, but not nearly as bad as it had before it had been bound, and he determined that he could make it. "Come on," d'Artagnan finally said, tracking the sun with his eyes. "We head west. That's where the road is. From there, the nearest village is only a few miles out. We'll be safe."

"How?" Louis asked as they began to gradually make their way to the road. "How could you know that?"

D'Artagnan didn't have the patience for this, and was working hard to keep the noises he made to a minimum. Talking wasn't high on his list of things to do at the moment. "Because I'm from Gascony," he finally gritted, "and have family there. Now shh, please, Your Majesty. We don't know who's out here."

The threat of attack was enough to silence Louis, who slowed his pace to stay in step with d'Artagnan, who had to swing his leg out and around in order to get it in front of him. Every time he put pressure on it another burst of agony began, but it was manageable. He'd survive- at least until he'd rescued the others.

They traveled this way for some time, silent and steady as they worked their way towards the town, but near midday it seemed the King couldn't be quiet any longer. "Who attacked us? Why would they take the others?"

D'Artagnan sighed. It had been the subject of his thoughts all morning. "They were Italian, whoever they were," he said darkly. "And I certainly don't think it's a coincidence that they attacked us right after Signora Bonacelli showed up in Court asking for help in finding her son. Maybe they took him, maybe he's one of them; I don't know."

"And why take the Musketeers? Why take Tréville?" Louis almost sounded afraid. For once, d'Artagnan couldn't blame him.

"The Italians may believe they can ransom the Musketeers off," he said with a slight shrug, wincing as he took another step. "It's more likely they want information, though."

"On what?"

D'Artagnan stopped and simply stared. "You."

When he began walking again, Louis had to trot to catch up. "Me? What have I ever done to the Italians?"

D'Artagnan huffed. "I don't know, Your Majesty," he said, picking his way around a few holes in the road, mindful of his injuries. "But they must have something against you, or else they wouldn't have attacked you. I'm just surprised they've made it to France through the Gascon border- we'd have reports, and-" he cut himself off and halted once more, and the King nearly walked past him.

"What?" Asked Louis.

"The Gascon border is alongside Spain," d'Artagnan said slowly. "We would have had reports if the Italian gang had entered France, especially in the numbers they had. The borders are well protected from foreigners who aren't allies- even more so because of the situation with Spain, as you know."

Louis crossed his arms over his chest and frowned as if frustrated. "But what does that have to do with anything?!"

"It has to do with everything," said d'Artagnan as he began to limp again. "Signora Bonacelli told me that she and her son had come through Spain to get to the Gascon border. Spain normally wouldn't allow the Italians to France through this border in case it was mistaken for a warlike advance. So why would they let in these particular Italians?"

"When we return, I'm doubling the guard at the borders," Louis told d'Artagnan, his petulance returned. "And they will all be under Rochefort's regime, because the Musketeers have proved themselves incompetent to me time and time again! And-"

D'Artagnan didn't hear the rest of the tirade because, in complete honesty, had stopped paying attention.

No, but this was starting to make sense...the Italian gang had passed through the Spanish border because Spain had hired them to kill the King, else they wouldn't have been allowed through. Signora Bonacelli and her son were either mistaken for members, or her son was a member and had faked his kidnapping to achieve the gang's goals without Signora knowing. And even if she had known, why would she have come to Court pleading for the King's help if she was going to reveal the gang's plot?

There was only one answer d'Artagnan could come up with, and his heart sank.

Signora Bonacelli had been apart of the gang's plan all along.

She had come to Court to lure the Musketeers out to the Gascon border, where the Italians had been lying in wait. But if they were after the King, they had no positive way of knowing that he was going to accompany them to the border- and there was no fathomable way that it was simply a coincidence.

Lured from his thoughts by a jolt of pain, d'Artagnan was forced back into the present, concentrating on where they were going. He and the King were nearly at the village and he could find his way from there. The King would be safe and it would allow d'Artagnan some time to think of a rescue plan- but he would have to make haste. He had no idea which way the Captain and his friends had gone, and his only hope would be to return to the clearing they had been taken from. Until he could find a horse and get back there, he was out of luck.

They continued on, and as the sun creeped across the sky d'Artagnan's skin began to prickle as if thousands of ants were crawling along it. He scrubbed at his arms and the back of his neck, but the feeling wouldn't go away.

As they reached the little town d'Artagnan was aware that he looked a wreck; he was covered in mud, blood, and had only his undershirt for a tunic. Wracked with trembles as his leg wobbled dangerously beneath him, they must have looked a sight, a monarch and a Musketeer, wandering around looking like ragamuffins.

"Where to, then, d'Artagnan?" Louis murmured as passerby began to stare, and d'Artagnan quickly ducked between two modest houses and past a stream, coming to stand in front of a manor sitting atop a small hill.

"Here," he grunted, and his arm snaked around his middle. "It's here."

Louis' eyes darted from the modest manor back to his Musketeer, who was bent nearly double with strain, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Fine trembles made him shake, and as Louis dared to look at d'Artagnan's mess of a leg, he knew that one fall going up this hill would be enough to ruin them.

"Come," he said finally. "Give me your arm."

D'Artagnan didn't protest as he offered Louis his arm, and the King hoisted it over his shoulder, supporting the Musketeer's bad side. With barely a word they began their trek, one foot in front of the other, faltered by pain and the fear that if they tumbled they were done for, and it seemed ages before they finally reached the top.

D'Artagnan was spent. He had fought letting the pain take over all day, but as Louis lowered him to the ground he lay motionless in misery, unable to move and unwilling to try, gulping in a desperate amount of air, choking on it as he inhaled. From the corner of his eye he saw Louis give a little knock on the door, and his limbs quaked as Louis dragged him to his feet. A few moments ticked by, and something heavy and dreadful swooped into his chest, knocking his breath away and he willed the door to open-

And when it did, he nearly melted in relief.

His sister stood there, more beautiful than d'Artagnan had ever remembered her being, her caramel hair fastened into an intricate braid and draped over one shoulder. She looked different- healthier, he decided faintly, though the ornate dress could have contributed. She had always been skinny when they were children, and d'Artagnan was happy to note that she had filled out a little and was no longer skin and bone.

"...Charlie?" She breathed finally, squinting at him in the fading evening light, and he mustered enough strength to offer her a smile. "Oh my- _Charlie_, what's- wait, I'll get Jean- _Jean!_ Jean, please, come quickly!"

Hurrying forward to take her brother's other side, she and Louis managed to get d'Artagnan into the manor and past the foyer, gently laying him out on the couch. Blearily d'Artagnan gazed at his beautiful sister, worry creasing her brows and making her look infinitely older, and he let out a stuttered exhale. "Treat His Majesty...first," he rasped.

"What?"

D'Artagnan nodded in Louis' direction, voice strained. "Nora, meet His Majesty, the King of France."

"Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you," his sister said, her voice hard. "But you'll excuse me if I don't bow right this moment."

"Of- of course," Louis managed as heavier footsteps clattered into the room- her husband.

"Nora, I hea- oh my Lord, is that your brother?!" Jean uttered, rushing to Nora's side as he bent over d'Artagnan.

"Hey, Jean."

"I'm sending for the physician," Jean said firmly, but d'Artagnan grabbed his wrist before he made it past, and Jean gave the younger man a stern look. "Charles, you are at risk of losing your leg," he said with a restraint that impressed everyone.

"We're at risk of losing much more than that if you alert anyone of our presence here," d'Artagnan levelled back, eyes bright with pain and the beginnings of fever.

Jean stared.

D'Artagnan stared back.

"Fine," the older man relented, "you have my attention- _for now._ But if we find we cannot treat your leg or if it gets any worse- _at all_\- we're sending for the physician, no questions asked. Do you hear me?"

"I'm not a little boy anymore," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"_Do you hear me?"_

"...Yes," d'Artagnan said finally. "I hear you."

Nodding determinedly, Jean knelt by the armrest where d'Artagnan's foot was propped up, ordering calmly, "Nora, go warm a basin of water and bring me all the fresh bandages- clean towels if we have them. Monsieur," he addressed King Louis, "I need you to go strip one of the beds- down the hall, your first left. Then bring me a fresh set of clothing from the closet opposite. Can you do that?"

"Jean-" Nora began, and Jean ignored her.

"Can you?"

Louis hesitated. "Of course," he repeated, and hastened to do as ordered.

"Alright," Jean said once he and d'Artagnan were alone, "I'm undoing these bandages. I apologize if I hurt you in advance." Then, a grim set to his features, he made quick work of the knots d'Artagnan had made in the strips of his shirt, gently removing the makeshift splints. "Christ," he said when the bubbled, bloody skin was revealed.

"Just do what you can," d'Artagnan managed.

"What did you do to yourself?" Jean muttered as he began to splint it better, with an actual medical grade splint instead of the flimsy forest branches. "Looks like you were trampled by a horse."

"Ha ha," d'Artagnan laughed hollowly, head thumping back against the pillows. He'd never recalled being so exhausted in his entire life.

He must have fallen asleep because when he woke again, he was disoriented and almost too comfortable, lying in an actual bed. He felt disgusting and sweaty and blatantly terrible and he thought he'd heard Aramis saying his name- _Aramis…_

"Shh," someone said from beside him, and something cool was suddenly placed across his brow, soothing the headache he hadn't known was there. "Shh. It's alright."

D'Artagnan whimpered, his whole body a huge throb of misery, twisting as he tried to free himself of the heat. "Sh, Charlie, it's alright...It's alright…" The person beside him began to hum a familiar tune, and he made a noise in the back of his throat. "That's right...it's alright now…" More humming, gently, soft singing, the words sliding past his ears to settle in his bones. "_...but we've survived more terrible monsters than sleep…and you know I will be here to tell you to breathe...tu sei il mio soldatino...__la ragione per cui vivo…non ti scordar di me...io vegliero su di te..._

His dreams were fevered and frightening and fast, too fluid for him to distinguish what was happening, dizzying in their complexity. He wasn't sure when he was awake or asleep, flashes of his friends' faces confusing him, unsure if they were real or not. He could remember bits and pieces of half conversations with people- but he wasn't sure if they actually happened or were just figments of his imagination.

He murmured something- he didn't know what. It wasn't in French. "_Si, mio caro. Sei al sicuro. Sei al sicuro con me. Va tutto bene, va tutto bene, fratellino. Il mio coraggioso fratellino."_

"_Dove sono i miei amici? Dove...dove è Athos e Aramis e Porthos? Dove- dove…"_

"_Shh, essere ancora. Essere ancora, fratellino. Guarderò su di te."_

"_Ma loro-"_

"_Guarderò su di loro troppo. Non devi preoccuparti. Chiudi gli occhi ora."_

Assured that his friends would be looked after for the time being once more, d'Artagnan finally did as told, and closed his eyes to the gentle tinkling of a long forgotten tune falling from his sister's lips.

* * *

_Has anyone recognized the song, yet? If not,** please go listen to Soldatino by Paola Bennet**. It isn't meant for this fandom, but it's a beautiful song that I think really fits here, so. Have fun. At least you know what the lullaby sounds like, yeah? _

_Guest: Thank you for your continued support :) Here's your update._

_Tintin: I hope you don't think me so evil now!_

_TacoSatchelThief: Thank you for your patience, I am still very sorry for the false alarm, but I hope you enjoyed this part!_

_**Katx**: That would be interesting! Any bites in particular, animal or otherwise? I guess I could maul one of them with a bear or sommat..._

_Guest: Thank you so much!_

_**Guest (El):** OH MY GOSH THANK YOU SO MUCH! Here's to hoping your sister isn't giving you those looks anymore :D Good luck with the 'American History' Revision (YOU CAN DO IT! THE BOYS AND I BELIEVE!) And also good luck with your finals (mine are going to be a bugger, lemme tell you, because they start Tuesday) so. Updates will hopefully come soon. _

_**Fanart** is always a lovely thing to receive, too, if any of you are interested! I have some people asking me if that would be okay, and let me tell you every piece I ever get is so treasured, honestly. The fact that people are even considering making me fanart is just absolutely breathtaking, thank you all. _

_Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts!_


	41. To the Silent Sound

_Hey guys! Been...quite a while. Not part of Soldatino, unfortunately, because I'm exhausted and can't wrestle with it anymore, so you get an angsty and depressing 'shot instead. Thank you so much for being patient, I really, really appreciate it. Words refused to come every time I sat down to type. I'd get anxiety because I wasn't writing, sit down to write and be unable to, and get more anxious to the point where I wanted to chuck my computer across the room, so I'd get back up and get nothing accomplished. That said, once more thank you so much to all of you for your patience, you're all so spectacular._

_This- I don't know how to feel about this. I literally just spewed words. I don't even know what to warn you about. Tragedy. This...is this. Hope you enjoy, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!_

_Also, for this chapter, you may want to look up the cover by **Jake Coco of Hallelujah**, on very, **very low** for background music. Just so you know._

* * *

_Hallelujah..._

_Hallelujah..._

Splattered blood. Quiet footfalls. Slippery pavement.

_Hallelujah..._

_Hallelujah..._

Angel chorus. Dark eyes. Broken thrones, cut hair.

_Hallelujah_.

Drawn Hallelujah.

None.

There was a time- time. Time. Gone. Nothing. No one. Blood on the pavement. Slippery pavement.

No time.

_Hallelujah_.

No Hallelujah.

Every breath puffed. Every sob hitched. Every stutter lonely. Slippery pavement. Splattered blood. Lonely. Gone. No one. Broth-

_Hallelujah_.

_Even though it all went wrong,_

_I stand before the lord of song_

_With nothing on my tongue but_

_Hallelujah_

No Hallelujah.

-ers. Brothers. No brothers. Swords. Clattering. Slip- splat- blood, blood. So much. Too much. Dark eyes- quiet. No eyes. Blood, blood. Eyes lonely. Eyes empty. Empty, empty, brothers- empty. Souls. Gone. Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

_Hallelujah..._

Where? Where, where, where, where wh_ere where whe re w her wh er e whe-_

Brothers?

Dead.

No brothers.

Standing, alone. Rain. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Rain. A jacket. Not his jacket. A warm hand slipped into his cold one- slipped, slipped, slippery. Slippery pavement. Pavement, pavement- blood. Dead, dead de_ad_ _dead dead-_

Cold lips. Trembling against his ear. Cold, cold, cold bodies. Dead. Lifeless. Gone. Empty. No souls. Empty.

Empty Hallelujah.

Stuttering breath. Constance- Constance. She. Constance. No brothers. He was alone.

They were- it wasn't- it was supposed to be him. Not them. Not his brothers. Not-

**Shh_._**

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_I heard there was a secret chord_

_That David played and it pleased the Lord_

The Lord- Aramis. Aramis. Aramis. Like a heartbeat. Aramis. Everywhere- everywhere he went, Aramis. Aramis was there. He missed- he couldn't- he wanted- Aramis.

Aramis, who was always- there. Aramis. Dead. Dead Aramis, dead, blood on the pavement too slippery _Aramis **watch out-**_

It wasn't supposed- it wasn't- he- it was supposed to be him, _him_, not Aramis, not them, not brot-

_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

_Broke your throne, cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

She, she. _She_. Holy dark? Holy dark indeed.

Athos wasn't- Athos. Athos. He needed Athos, he needed- what? What? He couldn't think, he couldn't- Athos, Athos, Athos, like something clogged in his throat, like something pressing, pressing, pressing between his shoulder blades- Athos, Athos, Athos, _Athos_\- the pounding in his head- Athos, Aramis and Athos both, blood on the pavement from the- them, the- ambush and he-

It was _supposed to be him-_

_The fourth, the fifth_

_The minor fall_

_The major lift_

_The baffled king composing_

Porthos- Porthos was gone, too. Gone. Just like- just like them. They were gone too. Blood- there was so much blood, and he couldn't stop it, and he wasn't expecting it, and he didn't- he didn't. He stood there. He didn't know what to do. He watched them- he wasn't- it wasn't supposed to be like this. Why did this- _why_. Why? Why. Porthos- gone just like them. Pavement. A strangled crack. Porthos' body sprawled like- like a puppet with cut strings. The ominous open window. Porthos- the unease of his stomach, the pain behind his eyes, the ring in his ears-

_Hallelujah_

Where, where, where? Where was that supposed to be? He couldn't- they were dead, and he was here, and Constance wasn't, the warmth was gone, there was no hand in his, she was gone just like they were and he didn't know what to do, he was stumbling around in the dark, lost without a light, like a child-

_And remember when I moved in you_

_The holy dark was moving too_

_And every breath we drew was Hallelujah_

How were- how? How were they bested? They were- they were meant to always win, that was- that was how things went. That was how the Inseparables were. That was just how things happened. But they were gone, and he was here, and he was alone and lost and small, so small, small and fragile and fractured, like a bird with broken wings, because they were what was holding him together even when he was sure he was going to fall apart-

Where was Constance? She was gone, and he needed her- needed.

He didn't know what.

What do to.

What was- why.

Why_._

_W h y?_

He had- he hadn't wanted- he'd tried, he'd-

It was meant to be him-

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch and _

_love is not some victory march_

_it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

He hadn't wanted.

He hadn't wanted.

_He hadn't wanted._

_All I've ever learned from love_

They were gone.

_Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you_

He was empty.

That was just how things were.

_Hallelujah,_

_Hallelujah._

Silence. There was no angel chorus, no Hallelujah- not like that. Not like. There wasn't even the ringing of grief. All he could hear was- was them, speaking his name, asking him- asking him not to.

But he couldn't.

_It's not a cry you can hear at night_

His brothers, they- he couldn't go on like this.

_It's not somebody who's seen the light_

He shut his eyes. Took a deep breath. Swallowed._ Be brave._

_It's a cold and it's a broken-_

Hallelujah?

What a joke.


	42. Proven

_Hey guys! So happy you all liked Hallelujah so much, your suppott really means the world :) This chapter is smol. It's not Soldatino, but to be honest I can't be bothered at the moment, so you get this little shot instead. Hope you enjoy :)_

_ El__: thank you for such an enthusiastic review, and I'm so happy that you enjoyed the chapter so thoroughly. I hope you enjoy chapters to come! _

_ Guest: I'm so happy that you like Athos' point of view and hope you have liked all the chapters thereafter! Thanks for the review!_

* * *

"Papa," he whined, _"please!"_

His papa spared him a glance that seemed distinctly amused and wholly unsympathetic as he kept walking, paying his little son little mind.

"Papa," he panted, dragging his feet and allowing his arms to dangle even as his hands brushed the freshly fallen snow. _"Papa!"  
_  
His father finally stopped and turned around fully, a chuckle rising from deep in his chest. Sighing as he gazed at his little son with fond eyes, he raised an eyebrow at the act, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "Come here, _Spadino_," he said wryly, and d'Artagnan all too happily pretended to stumble into his father's arms. They were only going to the nearest market, but it was a good trek, and the air was bitter with frost and the promis e of cold wind to come. "Are you comfortable?"

Laying his head on his papa's shoulder, d'Artagnan nodded as he stuck his cold nose in the crook of Papa's warm neck, tucking his arms in. His papa sighed as he stood and his knees cracked, tightening his grip when d'Artagnan started slipping a little. "Are you warm enough, _petit soldat?"  
_  
"Yes, Papa," he answered, burrowing himself further into his papa's safe arms, secure as they held him, sturdy around him. His papa would never drop him, he knew.

They traveled like that for some time before d'Artagnan began to feel drowsy, tucking his face further against his papa's neck, closing his eyes. Papa's scent, familiar and comforting, drifted around him and made him feel all the safer, and he quietly tried to stifle a yawn.

"One of these days, Charles, I won't be able to carry you."

As he dropped off he barely caught his papa's words, but when he did it was with a sleepy reassurance to himself that his papa was teasing, just as he always did when he carried d'Artagnan. His papa often said things like this- but he was always wrong, and so d'Artagnan was soothed by the familiarity of it. His papa was never going to leave him.

Imagine d'Artagnan's surprise when, in the end, it was _he _who was proven wrong.

* * *

_I know this chapter wasn't much, but I hope you enjoyed all the same. Please leave me a comment/review/prompt or any other thoughts you may have! I love to hear them, and thank you for reading!_

_**P.S. **I have no idea when Soldatino will be out, or even if it will be out. So my question is: do you all really want a resolution, or are you happy with what's there? Because I'll finish it if you guys want- I'm sure I'd find the motivation somehow- but if you guys aren't feeling it I just won't expend the effort and I'll donate it to some prompts that I've had for the past year. (Happy late 1 year anniversary, by the way!) **So to the conclusion: yay or nay?**_


	43. TFSOCLOFHIH(P)ATSDHT Pt 1

_Hey everyone, look! Not-dead! I know, I know, amazing. But really, I am sorry for the long hiatus- life has been hectic since summer ended, but here I am now! Maybe I'll try to do a Halloween chapter (please don't get your hopes up though). _

_W-what? The chapter title? OH, THIS CHAPTER TITLE, THAT JARGON AT THE TOP THERE? Yeah, this chapter is apart of a 5 chapter series, and that jargon up there happens to be an acronym for "The Four Separate Occasions Constance Looked Out For Her Idiotic Husbands (Plural) And the Time She Didn't Have To" because it wouldn't fit in the box. What? Haha, no, I didn't spend...ten minutes trying...trying to make it fit what...what are you talking about..._

_A special thanks to **RowanaRenee**, who was kind enough to beta this for me. You're fantastic, Mellon-nin! But also t__hank everyone for all your patience and all your support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! _

* * *

d'Artagnan

_Madame d'Artagnan._

It doesn't matter how many times Constance thinks it, or says it, or hears others address her as so; each time sends her heart racing, elation rushing through her veins as she allows those two glorious praises to roll around in her brain for a few timeless seconds.

_Madame d'Artagnan._

The little children on the street call after her with this name; the women titter as she walks by and compliment her on her new marriage with this title, saying: _congratulations, Madame d'Artagnan_; the Musketeers at the Garrison tip their hats to her and speak with the respect of gentlemen when they address her- _good evening, Madame d'Artagnan, how are you today? Trust d'Artagnan's treating you well? _It seems that those around her have adapted better than she.

She catches the thoughts, sometimes, in which she refers to herself as _Madame Bonacieux-_ not out of love, or reminiscence, or a twisted sense of longing; it's merely a habit that she can't seem to break no matter how hard she tries. She's been Madame Bonacieux since she was but a young girl- barely a woman. It will take some getting used to before she's able to rid her mind of that title.

D'Artagnan never faults her for this way of thinking- only kisses her softly on the nose or the cheek or the forehead, gently taking her small hands into his comfortingly larger ones, pressing his lips against her skin as he corrects her. It's without malice; d'Artagnan, as much as he tries, isn't a malicious person. He only does it to make her feel better; he knows how much she hates herself for it, how much guilt she carries for it because she's not Madame Bonacieux (not anymore, never again), and she doesn't want to think of herself as such.

Being married to d'Artagnan doesn't strike Constance as such a big deal- not like her marriage to Bonacieux did. But perhaps that's because with d'Artagnan, she's only confirming in front of God what she's known for a while, now: d'Artagnan is the man she wants to spend her whole life with, and even if they weren't married, they would have found a way.

It's funny- she never thought she'd be content, sitting in her kitchen and cooking or sewing or baking. With Bonacieux, it had always seemed mandatory and aggravating, expectation, like Constance wasn't worth any more than the housewife down the street. But now it's almost enjoyable, sitting by the fire and going about her daily activities. Maybe it's because Constance knows d'Artagnan doesn't expect anything of her- he already knows who she is and what she's capable of. Maybe it's because she's realizing what it is to be happy.

It seems almost cruel of her, to compare her marriages between d'Artagnan and Bonacieux- d'Artagnan is sweet and gentle and kind, three things that Bonacieux surely was not. And d'Artagnan loves her, loves her enough that he comes home at the end of the day and forgives her mistakes, and she knows that this means love because she greets him and does the same. It's breathtaking and lovely and wonderful, and it's beautiful.

She tends to think about this when she's alone, or when d'Artagnan has yet to rise; it's what prompts the thoughts of this morning that she's having now as she warms some porridge for him, having risen from the warmth of their shared covers. It's cold, the middle of December, and she thinks he'll appreciate a hot meal before having to go out and trek to the barracks in the freezing, pre-dawn darkness, in what looks to her like a solid six inches of snow. His boots will be wet when he returns home- he doesn't much mind, but it irks her- she's the one who will have to deal with his whining should he fall ill.

While the porridge is heating, Constance flits about gathering the things he'll need for today; he'll put on his official Musketeer garb and pauldron, yes, but he'll need extra things- gloves, a scarf, thicker socks. He'll be too bleary eyed to remember them before he walks out the door.

She assembles everything he needs on the kitchen table and is pulling the porridge away from the fire when she hears the telltale signs of her husband descending the stairs, the resounding thunks of sleepy footsteps. She turns as he enters, her lips quirking at the corners when she spots his mussed hair hanging in tangles around his face.

Heavy eyelids blink slowly as he kisses her cheek, and she shuffles him to the table and combs his hair out gently with her fingertips, smiling once more when he leans his cheek against her stomach and exhales softly. It's a nice change in pace, this dynamic- she knows he must never act like this when on missions with his brothers-in-arms, and though she's his wife now she can't help but feel special, fortunate to see this side of him that no one else does.

Leaning away so he'll actually begin to eat his breakfast, she wraps a shawl over her shoulders to keep warm, taking a seat by the fire as he smiles drowsily and meets her eyes.

"Good mornin', love."

Bonacieux never bid her good morning. (And he never called her things like 'love', but this, above everything else he'd done, hurt so badly that even now she dislikes bringing it into her thoughts. D'Artagnan, in fact, seldom calls her pet names like this, preferring her actual name (he'd told her, once, it was the most beautiful thing he could think to say). But with d'Artagnan it's different- just different.)

"Good morning," she returns, and his lips twitch as he returns to eating.

Companionable silence reigns for a while, and Constance deciding to tidy up a little while she's idle- she hadn't done it last night, instead opting to retire early with d'Artagnan rather than take care of her chores, and it wouldn't hurt if she finished it early.

At some point, d'Artagnan rises, and Constance doesn't look up from where she's scrubbing at the table's newest stain when he kisses her cheek, squeezing her arm gently, his fingers rough but comforting against her skin.

Her brows furrow.

"And where do you think you're going without your gloves?"

She turns, drinking in his expression- something that resembles a deer caught in a hunter's sights. Spotting his bare neck, a crease appears on her forehead as she demands, "and you'll catch your death out there without a scarf, d'Artagnan! I put them out for a reason!"

"But Constance," d'Artagnan protests, shaking himself lightly to lose the frightened look in his eyes, "the gloves are too thick and get in the way, and the scarf-"

"You stop it now!" She scowls, picking up the scarf herself and looping it around his neck a few times for good measure.

"But Constance, I really don't need these! Especially the glo-"

"And you best put those on, before I strangle you with this scarf," she mock-threatens.

"But Con-"

"I won't say it again," she says firmly, fixing the scarf itself so it's snug against his skin, close enough to keep him warm but loose enough that he wasn't actually going to be strangled. For all her talk, she doesn't actually want to kill him. At least not yet.

"Why do I have to?"

"Because I don't want to listen to your whinging when you come home with a cold tonight if you don't," she says sternly, summoning her best glare. He shrinks slightly, shoulders bunching, and a certain amount of satisfaction fills her. "God save me from you and the rest of your idiot friends. I'm sure it's Porthos, now, who's told you it's alright not to wear gloves?"

D'Artagnan's look says it all, and Constance grabs his hand and shoves one glove onto it, then the next onto his other hand. "There. I've dressed you. Do you need me to walk to you the Garrison as well?"

D'Artagnan murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like "good lord", his eyes wide as he grabs some bread as well.

"I fed you this morning for a reason!" She says, watching with enjoyment as he scrambles to put it back, then pulls on his boots. He'd put on the socks at least, she notes. "And I'll know if you take off those gloves, d'Artagnan, don't think I won't!"

"How?!" He asks incredulously, looking over his shoulder, hat halfway to his head.

She smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. "I have my ways. Have a good day, love."

Her sudden gentility must take him off guard, because a sudden softness overcomes his face that hadn't been there before. With a tender smile tugging at his lips, he clasps his cloak about his shoulders absently and steps towards her, running his hands down her arms as he kisses her on the forehead.

"See you tonight," he promises and she slaps his chest playfully.

"You better," she says "or you'll be in big trouble."

"Will I now?"

"Mm. Especially if you're late," she warns, and he laughs lightly.

"Anything for you, dear," he teases, stepping away and over the threshold, gone out into the still delicately falling snow.

Later, when she's thought about it more, she snorts quietly to herself. "Madame d'Artagnan, indeed," she says, her lips ticking up. "Madame d'Artagnan."

_Madame d'Artagnan._

Even with all the good, she still won't put up with his nonsense- she loves him, after all, and part of that entails being his voice of reason for when he's being reckless. (She isn't about to admit to herself that his recklessness is actually kind of endearing, because she does have some dignity, after all.)

(When he comes home with a cold, she tries not to tell him 'I told you so'. She fails.)

* * *

_Guest: Welcome, friendly French person! Don't you worry, I appreciate all the help, you're very sweet. I hope you enjoyed this chapter (hopefully no French mistakes in this one, considering I stuck to English XD)_

_ara: Thank you, darling! You're so sweet! And if you enjoyed the werewolf AU, you're in for a treat! :D Thanks for the review and I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much as the others!_

_Well, I hope everyone else enjoyed, thank you for reading, and please don't hesitate to leave me a comment/prompt on your thoughts! Oh, speaking of prompts, I apologize again for not being on top of those. I've been struggling with writer's block and kind of focusing on whatever muse comes to me for the moment. Once I get back on the band-wagon, I'll start cranking them out :) Until then, I truly appreciate all of your patience!_

_Thanks again and see y'all next time!_


	44. TFSOCLOFHIH(P)ATSDHT Pt 2

_*GASP* Another post? Within less than three weeks of each other? I know, it's a miracle! Anyway, here is the second part of the-ridiculously-long-acronym-that-was-meant-to-shorten-a-ridiculously-long-name-but-seems-to-have-just-made-it-worse! Thank y'all again so much for your support- I CANNOT BELIEVE WE'RE ALMOST AT 700 REVIEWS WHAT WHAT IS LIFE WHAT- but I could not have done it at all without any of you!_

_So a very Happy Halloween (a day late but shh), and I hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

Constance feels she should be more surprised than she is when the Musketeers do end up living at her and d'Artagnan's house, but the truth is that she's been expecting this for some time now. Her husband and their friends tend to be attached at the hip, and don't go long away from each other if they can help it.

So she's not surprised when she occasionally finds Aramis, Athos, or Porthos (or the three of them) staying over and sleeping in the spare bedroom she and d'Artagnan have after a particularly long card game, or when they stay late into the night talking about various things and simply sleep there.

It gets to a point where she begins inviting (expecting, really) the three of them to show up for dinner, setting three places and making triple the food. It should annoy her. It doesn't.

Perhaps that's because they're her friends, too; perhaps it's because they've all been through so much together and she simply expects them to be there to support her, to support d'Artagnan. They all support each other.

(Maybe it's because they're family.)

Whatever the case, Constance doesn't mind their presence as much as she thinks she should, but it's not as if there's much to complain about. No matter how much she grumbles about Aramis' cheekiness, or Porthos' tendency to snore so loud she's sure the next three houses can hear, or Athos' drinking, she never actually means it. It's what makes them who they are, and if she didn't love them all so much maybe it'd annoy her like it should. But it doesn't.

But even though Constance says it doesn't bother her, there is a line.

The line for Athos happens to be in the wee hours of the morning, wide awake and with a drink in his hand.

This line wouldn't have become a Line if it had only happened now and again, only once or twice. But this is the eighth time in the past two weeks that Constance has woken at such an hour, instinct driving her to wakefulness, and found him sitting contemplatively by the fire.

Creeping down the stairs and eyeing the silhouette cast by the light of the fire, Constance rolls her eyes and quietly comes up behind him, observing his distant eyes and what she suspects is the same drink he was nursing when she'd retired. Athos doesn't look up- doesn't even acknowledge her. Just sighs and goes to take another sip of his half-full goblet.

"Oh no you don't," she rebukes lightly, snatching the mug out of his hand with nimble, quick fingers. Eyes shooting up to meet her own, Athos blinks in surprise to see her there, a frown creasing his features and making him look harsh and bitter. As someone who has seen looks of charm and boyishness on that same face, Constance is taken further aback than she imagined she would.

"It's no good for you, Athos," she explains, her voice gentle suddenly. The scowl has disappeared from her voice at his expression. "You should be in bed."

Athos turns back to the fire, bloodshot eyes staring for too long into its flames. "Can't sleep."

"Have you tried?"

Athos looks into her face, creases of anger around his mouth. "I have tried ever since she betrayed me," he says quietly, voice heavy with a restrained growl. "Do not think I have not attempted to be rid of these demons, Constance. There are more than you know."

"And you are more than you know," she says, turning away from him and heading for the kitchen. Perhaps some tea. It's one of those nights.

She waits by the small kitchen fire she'd begun in the place, watching as the water began to boil, leaving Athos in peace for a few moments. She eyes the goblet she still holds in her hand, and tips it over into the fire, making it roar higher. The water boils faster.

_Good_, she thinks, and that's that.

She prepares the tea, pouring it into two cups and carrying them over, placing Athos' in his slack hand. Looking up from where his face is buried in his hands, Athos' brows furrow as Constance settles beside him, cradling her own mug against her chest. It's chilly despite the fire, still the middle of deep January, and their house, cozy as it is, can't ward off the frost fully.

"And what do you think you're doing?"

She turns to him, raising an eyebrow in return. "Sitting with you," she replies airily. "Don't be so dense, Athos."

"You should be in bed."

"As should you, and yet here we are."

Perhaps it's the use of _we _that finally does it, but Athos sits back and takes an absent sip of his tea, grimacing.

"Oh, stop," she says, and he scowls at her. "Just because it's not mead doesn't give you a right to turn your nose up at it."

"I'm drinking it," he defends, and as if to prove his point takes another sip.

Constance smirks quietly to herself.

Silence descends, the companionable kind, that which need not be interrupted. The minutes tick by steadily, immeasurably, Constance nursing her tea with Athos until it's empty, then sitting with him still as the fire gradually dims, and the darkness of night begins to lighten as morning approaches.

Her head comes to rest against Athos' shoulder as she blinks sleepily, his warmth appreciated as she shivers against him. Almost absently, his arm comes to rest around her shoulders as he pulls her closer to him, lending his body heat. Content, her eyes slip closed.

Blearily, she registers she's being coaxed to lie down, her head coming to rest upon a pillow, Athos' calloused hand rubbing against her shoulder as he pulls a blanket up to her chin. Drowsily she glances towards the window to see if she has to get up yet, but the shutters are still closed.

"Sleep," Athos tells her, and she closes her eyes.

Just as she's drifting off again, she can swear she feels lips gently press against her forehead.

She's not as surprised as she feels she should be.

(Family takes care of family, after all.)

* * *

_I admit freely that Constance and Athos' friendship physically pains me inside, not gonna lie_

_TacoSatchelThief: Oh, you can definitely count on that headcanon to be included elsewhere! I love it myself, I'm glad you enjoyed it so much :D I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! (Also, cute Constagnan will show up somewhere, at some point. As much as I love the brotherly feels, I can't help but die over Constagnan fluff.)_

_Nellied: Thank you! Glad to be back. I'm glad you enjoyed it so much and hope you enjoyed this chapter too!_

_Alright y'all, hope you enjoyed, please don't hesitate to leave me a comment/prompt on your thoughts, thank you for reading, and I'll catch ya next time!_


	45. TFSOCLOFHIH(P)ATSDHT PT 3

_Hey everyone! So this is the third part of the little arc I've been working on, and I have to say, this one might be my favorite. (Though I am so proud of Madame d'Artagnan). I love the dynamics between Constance and all the boys, but I do so love Constance and Aramis' the best, and as such I probably had the most fun exploring it in this chapter! Thank you all again for such patience and all the kind words, you really are the sweetest group of readers I could have ever come across. That said, I hope you enjoy this!_

* * *

Her relationship with Aramis is...interesting.

She loves him, obviously- he's stupidly charming and funny and kind, and he tries to woo her every time he comes over, much to her husband's chagrin. She knows he doesn't mean it- if Aramis is anything, it's a tease- but she can't help but feel special that he's chosen to pine after her in the most innocent, friendly way, kissing the top of her hand like a brother may do to a sister he was attempting to delight.

It's...sweet.

There's nothing suggestive about the way he pecks her on the cheek, how he winks at her, how he pretends to trail his eyes after her. Because if there was every time she slapped him he wouldn't laugh. And oh, slap him she does.

But it's all play, all meaningless banter; all sparkling eyes and no sincerity except for the times when he brings her a flower or helps chop vegetables for dinner or buys more wine when he finishes it. He really is very sweet in his own ways, and it makes Constance smile.

Aramis, for all his libertine ways, has a certain respect for women- for their bodies yes, but also for their personalities and their emotions. For all of his one night stands, he treats women kindly, and a humble light enters his eyes when he looks upon them. For all his talk, Aramis cares.

For all his caring, however, Aramis is careless with affection, throwing it around as he sees beneficial to his own desire and often Staring women who may want more into a one-time arrangement. He sleeps with many and loves few, because humility is not the same as fondness, and kindness is not the same as the adoration of a life-partner. But it is more than she can ever say for Bonacieux and his values.

The truth is simply that Aramis is in love with the Queen, and doesn't know how to cope with the fact that he will never be able to be with her. The only thing he knows how to do is sleep away his pains, so he does, now more than ever, with the same careless affections that he had carried prior to loving her.

But Constance knows. She sees.

Aramis looks upon the Queen the same way she catches d'Artagnan looking at her- the adoration of a life-partner.

He can never be with her, with his son, and she watches as it kills him a little inside; when he comes home and is inquired by Porthos after his latest exploits, he smiles, but it is a forlorn, lonely thing, and his eyes pool in longing. Constance is sure the others must notice this expression on his face too- but they smile and joke and play cards because that is the only way they know how to tell him he is not alone, how to say that they will stand as best they can in her place.

And Constance knows they try their best- that's not the point. The point is that no amount of camaraderie can replace the intimacy of a lover you truly love. No amount of friendship can replace the tenderness and warmth between shared sheets in early mornings when the sun has barely risen, and it's only the two of you with the knowledge that no one else has the privilege of seeing this side of the person beside you.

So Aramis grins his charmed, cocky grin and uses his Stare and struts in the way that suits a cat more than a man and sleeps with women, and comes home with weary eyes and creases at the edges of his eyes that aren't from smiling.

So when Aramis comes home with a dead expression on his face, Constance does one of two things- starts a banter with him that they both know neither of them are in the mood for or draw him a drink. Usually, she reserves the drinking for when Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan return home from wherever they've gotten to, but the banters (though containing little spirit) do seem to do Aramis some good, and some color returns to his face when it ends. (Mainly because she's slapped him, but, well. Nothing is perfect.)

It's a quiet, rainy day at the beginning of spring when Constance finds one of these times upon her, looking up from her mending of d'Artagnan's winter scarf (which mysteriously has managed to get a rip in it that has rendered it unusable) when the front door opens and Aramis steps through. Cold hands remove his hat from his head and the pauldron from his shoulder, his face half-shaded in the shadows of the lack of the afternoon sun, his hair stringy around his face.

"Aramis," she says, and rises to stoke the fire a little higher when she notices he's soaked. "You look half-drowned."

Aramis doesn't answer, staring down at his vest and concentrating on unlacing it so he can hang it out to dry. She frowns, putting down the poker.

"Aramis?" She ventures lightly, creeping closer to his silhouette, still shrouded in the hall. "Aramis, are you alright? You haven't gotten yourself hurt again, have you? Of all the foolish things-"

"I'm alright, Constance," he answers quietly, finally shrugging his vest off. Bowing his head low and nearly tucking his cheek against his shoulder, he makes as if to side-step her, likely headed for the stairs for a change of clothing.

It's blatantly obvious to Constance that something is amiss, so she moves to stand in his path, stopping him in his tracks. If possible, his head bows lower. "Please, Constance, leave me to peace."

"Not until you tell me what's going on," she says firmly, worry blossoming too quickly in her chest, her hands wringing when she can find nothing better to do with them. "Come on then, I can see right through you; I know something's the matter."

Aramis sighs, shoulders shifting, still refusing to look at her. Her head canting, Constance's eyes narrow as she gently grasped his chin, tilting the side of his face he's hiding towards the light. He lets her.

There's an ugly black, blue, and purple bruise forming all along the right side of his face, tendrils of it flowing into the bottom of his jaw and the top of his hairline, his whole eye ringed in black and his cheekbone so angrily puffed up that Constance thinks something must be broken. There's a small cut at his temple, still sluggishly bleeding; it's small enough that it shouldn't be serious but it does concern her, fear for him flashing in her eyes at his appearance.

"Aramis," she whispers, and takes both his hands in her own. Usually, his are warmer than hers; now, his fingers tremble with cold. "Come, let me sit you down, I'll treat that," she murmurs, and ushers him gently over to the armchair by the fire. He lowers himself gingerly, but she skims his form with her eyes and finds no obvious other injuries that he had been trying to hide from her.

Pursing her lips and leaving him to thaw, she fetches a cool rag and wraps a handful of snow from the windowsill in it, wetting another with the room temperature water in the pot she had been planning on heating for dinner. Returning to him, she tenderly places the the rag full of snow against his swollen cheek, dabbing at the cut with the warmer one.

She waits patiently for him to speak, saying nothing as she tends to him and only pausing long enough to drape a blanket about his shoulders. When he does speak, it's nearly inaudible, almost as if he's ashamed.

"A certain madame wasn't entirely pleased upon the realization that I was not actually interested in pursuing her long-term," he says in a stilted, half-amused way, his tone more brittle than the icicles outside. "Her weapon of choice happened to be a nearby candlestick."

There's a pause in which Aramis must sense her horror, for when he continues, it's an attempt at light speech. "A change in pace from the other women, I must say- they all seem to prefer open-handed slaps. Truly, it was a creative stroke of violence." He huffs out a laugh that was barely more than an exhale. "I do like violence in a woman."

"Aramis," she says, voice returning. It had sputtered and died on her for a time. "Aramis, you- _Aramis_. You can't keep doing this- she could've killed you!"

Aramis laughs again, hollowly. "I know. Curious thing, isn't that? Survived Savoy and treason and all sorts of misadventures, and in the end I'd be felled by a candlestick. A pitiful way to go, really."

"Aramis," she rebukes without any real heat. "I know that I can't ask of you to stop being who you are, and I am not doing so. But please, please, try to be more careful. Your life is not simply something I- nor your other friends- would seen thrown away by something as 'pitiful' as a candlestick."

Aramis stops, and when he meets her eyes, the right one- the swelled one, which has opened a fraction- is bloodshot from popped vessels. He looks raw and vulnerable and lost, and she takes his hands once more, drawing them close. They're still cold. "I would not so soon see you hurt, Aramis," she says, then adds more adamantly, "or dead, for that matter. So you can stop this nonsense right this instant about pitiful candlestick deaths. The best way to not die by such a thing is to remove yourself from that situation altogether."

Aramis smiles. It's not a real one. "And yet, here we are," he muses. "And here I'm sure we'll be again."

She swallows. She can't make him see- she can't make anyone do anything. No one can. Especially when it's a matter of health and stubbornness. Instead, she scoffs, and lightly shoves him in the chest. "You're an idiot if you think I'm patching you up again for your idiocy," she clips, but her fingers skim delicately over the cut at his temple, no longer bleeding but a stark shade of red against the blue and purple of his skin. "And this- mark my words, you won't want to see what I'll do if you bleed all over my house!"

He meets her eyes once more, recognizing what's happening, and a genuine smile, shy but true, tugs at the corners of his lips. "No more than your husband has, I suspect," he says, and his eyes are soft but not teasing. "For a housewife, you sure complain a lot."

When she slaps him lightly on the uninjured cheek, he grabs her hand agilely and swiftly places a kiss to the top of it.

"Tease," she accuses, her version of _I love you_.

"Only for you, dear," he responds airily, and his eyes shine with his own. "Only for you."

She knows that she's not the one he needs- will never be the one he needs, and can never replace what he lost when his foolish heart decided it belonged to the Queen, someone he will never be able to have. She knows that she can't be that person, no matter the amount of friendship she provides or the banter they trade. He's lost something dear and light and perfect and good, and he's mourning, and it's so hard.

But she does love him, and even though camaraderie is no replacement for adoration, she can try her best.

* * *

_**Guest**: That idea is downright evil. I LOVE IT. It will definitely go on my list of prompts, mark my words! Unfortunately, said list is so long that it might not be for a while, but it WILL happen at some point, don't you worry! Thank you so much for the review and the suggestion!_

_**Sarah**: Thank you so much for your kind words!_

_**Gerita shipper:** I've talked a lot about things concerning _Soldatino_, and so many of you want a resolution that I wish I could provide. As of right now, though, the inspiration is gone and I simply have no idea what to do. I'm also struggling with a bout of bad writer's block right now for everything, and can't really consider going back to Soldatino at this time. Someday I do hope to give you all the epilogue you want so much, and perhaps in the near future it will happen. As of right now, though, Soldatino is done. I'm sorry and hope you understand where I'm coming from when I say this. Thanks for the review and for reading, though! I'm glad you enjoy._

_Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt! (I will be getting back to those, I swear to you all.)_


	46. TFSOCLOFHIH(P)ATSDHT PT 4

_Hey guys! So here's the next installment of this series (otherwise known as hey-look-that-weird-series-with-an-impossibly-long-name), but I apologize for the lateness! I thought it'd be done sooner, and, well. Here we are. Life was kind of like 'HERE YOU GO' and dumped a whole bunch of stuff on me. But it's okay now, I'm good! I'm alive! How are you all?_

_This one is from Porthos' POV (And went a little differently than what I thought it would?) so forgive me my artistic liberties and any deviations from canon (also any spelling, grammar, etc errors, because I haven't reread this and I'm crazy tired but didn't want you guys to wait any longer, so sorry, I'll get back to those later). That said, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Constance smiles.

The weather is nice for the first time in months, the sun finally bold enough to peek out from around the clouds that are permanently suspended over French skies. Constance breathes in the soft spring air as she opens the shutters for the first real time since autumn, a sigh of relief falling from her lips. Things will begin coming back to life now.

She putters about, the fresh air giving her motivation to clean and take care of things around the house, but she runs out of chores quickly that she hasn't already done. She's been cooped up all winter, stuck inside the house, and there had been nothing much to do except for chores. She's tired of being caged, if she's honest, and she glances longingly out the window. She'd be happy if she could just take a stroll to market and back.

A thought occurs to her that makes her immediately hopeful, a light smile curling her lips when she discovers that their pantry is almost empty and, even if she could make dinner with what they have here, she'd have to go out and get things for dinner tomorrow- so why not just do it now?  
Grinning and donning only a light shawl, Constance grabs her basket from beside the door and steps outside into the fresh air, the sunlight warm against her face. Another smile breaking free, Constance breathes in, the breeze lightly ruffling her hair as she starts forwards.

She plucks about in the marketplace, picking up this and that and inspecting the fruit and enjoying the lull that comes with new conversation. The weather is still lovely and warm by the time she finishes, and she decides that she'll take the long route home, strolling and softly humming to herself as she goes, dinner supplies tucked into her basket.

The sun has crawled a good way across the sky by the time she returns home, beaming from ear to ear and feeling better for the nice weather and fresh air. She quietly goes inside, unsurprised that the house was empty at this time of day, and begins preparing dinner for when she knows they'll return; it's one of the rare times that her husband and his rapscallion friends (but this is thought with a fond smile) aren't on a mission and are actually able to make dinner on time. (Not that they did anyway, but Constance can hope.)

She's just about to put on a pot over the fire to boil when she hears a muffled thump from upstairs in the bedrooms. Freezing where she stands, Constance sets the pot down slowly and reaches for the poker, clutching it in her fist tightly as she swings it up in front of herself. At least now she can attack whoever's breaking into her house.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the shaking of her hands, Constance forces herself to calm down, firmly unsticking the poker from where it's glued to her chest, swallowing. Her husband has taught her all the self-defensive moves he knows, and they spar whenever she asks him so she remains sharp.

After everything- after Milady and Rochefort and Bonacieux and all sorts of disjointed villains, it seems silly for her to be afraid of a simple house burglar, especially with the training she's had. But here she is, trembling in her kitchen. The idea of some stranger being able to break into her house while she's gone out is scary enough, but the fact that she hadn't sensed anything amiss is even scarier.

She takes a deep breath, gritting her teeth. She can do this. She can defend herself. She knows how. D'Artagnan taught her, and even before that she could take care of herself just fine. She can do this.

Constance starts up the stairs hesitantly, making her steps as quiet as possible. When the staircase creaks lightly with her weight, she cringes violently, the poker dipping gently in her grip.

She makes it to the second floor, breathing heavily, her chest heaving quietly as she struggles to draw air through her adrenaline. She can do this. She can do this. She can do this.

She bites down on her trembling lips, tightens her grip on her poker, rears back and sees the person step out of the bedroom and swings with all her might-

"Oi!" The man exclaims roughly, seizing the poker inches before it connects with his face and kills him, eyes wide as they meet hers. "Constance, s'alrigh'! S'me, s'me!"

"Porthos?!" She gasps, relief like she's almost never known flooding through her and making her knees wobbly. "Oh, Porthos, I didn't- I nearly killed you!"  
Porthos sniffs, squaring his shoulders as the poker falls from his hand. "Nah," he dismisses as he smooths out the front of his tunic. "Wasn' tha' close."

But Constance is shaking and can't forget the look on his face, how he caught that poker by inches-

"Oi," he repeats, and steps forward into her space. She flinches backwards out of instinct, like her body is still processing an intruder instead of a friend and she's ashamed of herself for it, wincing deeply before she can check it. Her face must show how guilty she feels or he must somehow see it or sense it, because he doesn't fault her for the flinch; he just takes another step closer and rubs his hands up and down her suddenly chilled arms in a comforting gesture. She appreciates it because it's pretty much the only thing keeping her upright- her knees are shaking too badly.

"Hey, love, s'alrigh'," he says softly, and she bites down harder on her quivering lip. She's faced so many things- so many horrible, horrible things, things that make this situation seem so easy and insignificant- but she'd been scared, and he'd nearly died.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and he smiles at her, and everything seems a little less terrible.

"You didn' think you could get rid o' me tha' easily, eh?"

She laughs and it's somewhat teary, but he's nice enough not to call her out on it. "If I wanted you gone I'd stop making your dinner," she replies, and he laughs even though it's a weak comeback.

"Mm," Porthos hums, and Constance looks down with a smile-

That promptly disappears when she notices the growing dark stain on his left leg.

"Oh my- Porthos! What happened?!" She demands, wrenching out of his grip and dashing into the bedroom, returning in record time with a chair. She sets it behind him and doesn't even have to put effort into her push to get him to sit down. It worries her more than it should. When he doesn't respond right away, she repeats, "what. Happened."

Her tone must set him on edge, because he avoids her gaze and a muscle in his jaw jumps. "Nothin', really," he says lightly, and Constance growls as she rips a strip of her dress to create a bandage. "Just a misunderstandin'. An' oi, tha's your dress," he argues when he she bends and begins to wind it around his bloody knee, pinning his trousers to his skin. She can fix it later.

"Yes, it's my dress," Constance grouses, wrapping tight enough to make him wince. "And you're an idiot. Are we done statin' the obvious?"

"Hey, why'm I th' idiot?" Porthos protests, and Constance sighs, fixing him a look.

"Because there are only two of us in this room, and I'm certainly not the idiot here," she says pointedly, her eyebrow rising. She has a point and she knows it.

"Fine," Porthos grumbles, and Constance shoots him a glare that's strong enough to keep him in his seat as she runs down the stairs and grabs her pot of water and snatches up her needle and thread before she returns to him, setting the water down beside her.

She begins unwinding her makeshift bandage, doing her best to ignore Porthos' occasional wince when she tugs too hard, but then it's free and the wound is still bleeding, albeit more sluggishly than before. She rolls up the leg of his trousers to expose the wound, and when she sees the angry, deep scrape running vertically from the bottom of his knee to his mid thigh, she sighs.

"What did you do to yourself," she murmurs, and he smiles.

"You should see th' other man. Drunk off 'is rocker, 'e was."

She snorts quietly, but otherwise doesn't respond.

Constance works in silence, gently cleaning it out and stitching it back together, sending him regretful looks every now and then. She hates to hurt him, especially with a needle, but there's no way this can go without stitches without getting infected, and she'd rather hurt him whilst healing him than leaving the possibility of infection to fester.

They don't speak, but Constance an sense there's something heavy on Porthos' mind, so she quietly tends to him and waits until he begins. They don't really talk to each other like she and d'Artagnan or Aramis do; Porthos is very much like Athos in that way. Perhaps it's a result of living on the streets for the majority of his childhood, or maybe it's just who he is and he doesn't want to burden anyone. Either way, he doesn't often express things that bother him, but if she waits and doesn't pester, he'll sometimes come to her. So she sits and waits and sews, and when he takes a deep breath she doesn't look at him, but she's hanging off every word.

"Y'know," he starts, and his voice is so _tired_. "I sometimes wonder wha' life'd be like, y'know? If I hadn't met th' Musketeers. If I'd gone wiv' my father, or if 'e'd tried t' find me. Or if I hadn't met Flea, or Charon. I think about 'em a lot, actually." He clears his throat. "S'stupid, to be honest- I've got th' Musketeers, and you, and I'm fine. S'not like I'm hurt or dyin' or anythin'. I jus' think about 'em a lot, an' I wonder."

Porthos is often mistaken for illiterate or shallow-minded, a man of simple birth and simple tastes. But he isn't. He's so much more, and Constance wishes that people would be brave enough to see past that, to who he truly is.

She sighs, continuing to sew. He's uncomplaining, but it must hurt. "I can't presume to know that I have any idea what your life would be like if those things had or hadn't happened," she says. "But I do know that you're here now, and that your friends love you, and that you mean a great deal to everyone you meet. Truly you do."

Porthos smiles thinly at her. "'pparently wasn't enough for my father, eh?"

Constance wrinkles her nose, and finishes her last stitch. When she looks up, her eyes are ablaze. "Well your father didn't know who you are or what you've been through, and certainly didn't care enough to find out." She takes a deep breath, and clasps his hands between her own. "Porthos. You deserve so much more than your father, or Charon, or Flea, or the Court, or the life you were given. But it's your life, and you're a good person. So try not to be hung up on things that may have happened when you're living your life as it now. You've been dealt a bad hand- but that doesn't mean you can't make due." She smiles when he grins at her poker reference. "Now. What was this injury really about?"

Porthos sighs, and his smile becomes self-deprecating. "I may or may not've provoked 'im. 'E was drunk, I swear. 'E was a red guard, and he fell, and it should've missed me- m' distance parry should've been 'nough. It wasn't."

Out of everything they've been through- out of Rochefort and Milady and his father and the Court and all sorts of disjointed villains, this is what he needs stitches for?

It's silly and the situation seems so insignificant, and Constance grins at him, and he grins back- because they understand one another and that's really all that matters, isn't it?

"Come on," Constance says, patting his leg. She's finished, he's finished. That's all there is to it, really. "You can help me make dinner."

"Do I have to?" He complains playfully. "I'd rather find another poker 'n spar wiv' you- seems like you could get pretty good with it!"

"Porthos, stop."

There was a beat of silence, and then: "...I can't believe you thought someone'd broke into th' house."

"Says the Musketeer who was beaten in a fight by a drunk."

They grin at each other, aware that they understand each other, and Constance takes a deep breath, and thinks that maybe Porthos can piece himself back together, little by little. He's not broken, but he's fractured just like she is. And, she thinks, maybe they can help put each other back together little by little.

Constance smiles.

* * *

_Okay everyone, that's it!_ _There's only one last part of this little arc (I know, so sad!) but after that I'm getting back on track with all my prompts, I swear to the pineapple gods. Thank you all so much for your support and patience, it means to much to me, and I hope all of you have had happy holidays and/or will have a happy holiday if I don't post before then and hear from you all! __Unfortunately, I don't think Christmas chapter this year. *sighs* BUT maybe I'll finish this arc in time for Christmas! That'd be nice, huh?_

_Sarah: Thank you so much! Glad you enjoyed!_

_Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment/prompt/any thoughts you may have! Happy Holidays!_


	47. TFSOCLOFHIH(P)ATSDHT PT 5

_Well, look who updated in time for the Holidays! This is the very last installment of That-Long-Series-That-Has-That-Stupid-Acronym-That-I-Keep-Mentioning! Thank you so much for all your comments and your support towards this series, it really means a lot to me. I hope that your holidays are lovely and bright and joyful and that you enjoy this last installment!_

* * *

5) That One Time Constance Was Looked After

It was later at night in late spring, the weather warm enough that she hadn't worn a jacket. She regretted it now; despite the heat of the day the night was growing chilly, a whipping wind causing gooseflesh to rise on the skin of her arms. The hair stood up at the back of her neck, sending tingles down her spine, almost as if in warning, like it would when she was nervous.

Constance laughed softly to herself and glanced down at the cobbles, crossing her arms over her chest more firmly.

She'd been at the palace serving with the Queen; there had been an important council meeting that the Queen had pleaded for Constance to attend with her, undoubtedly so she could consult her lady in waiting afterwards. Constance agreed- desperation had been too high in the Queen's tone for Constance to say no- and it had not been dismissed until late in the evening, when the sun had just been dipping below the Paris skyline.

Constance had considered staying at the palace- it would not have been unusual for her to have remained; after all, she had her own rooms and frequented them when d'Artagnan and his rapscallion friends were off on missions. (She disliked coming home to an empty house even after all the years she had done so when Bonacieux was away on business. It wasn't the same- the quiet felt cold instead of comforting, her bed eerily empty instead of spacious.) So she liked to stay at the palace, where there were brightly lit hallways to banish the darkness and footsteps always pacing to and fro as guards walked in front of her door on their patrols. Sometimes she slept in the rooms adjourned to Anne's chambers after they'd stayed up late into the night talking.

But she had denied the use of those rooms this time, instead choosing to trudge home in the cold and the darkness of twilight, too eager to get there to really even consider staying over at the palace. It was her and d'Artagnan's first anniversary, today marking the first year of their marriage, and she couldn't wait to see him, to kiss him, to hold him. She hadn't seen him in what had to be more than a week; he'd been away on a mission, but before he'd gone he'd promised her that he'd be home for their anniversary. And he was home. He'd delivered on his promise.

Smiling out into the darkness despite the chill, Constance lifted her head to grin at the stars. Everything in her life that had seemed bleak before- her marriage, her status, her outlook- it was finally looking up. It was all because of d'Artagnan, and she owed him more than she thought she could ever repay.

But he didn't want that- he was simply content to love her, to have her with him always. She was lucky. She was so, so lucky. She was content to do just that too.

She hadn't been paying attention to where she was walking, but she'd unconsciously turned down one of the darker, more deserted roads on her way home. That was alright. It was pitch black, but it was alright; the house was only a couple more blocks away.

Lost in her thoughts once more, she almost didn't see the darkened silhouette standing at the end of the street, the glint of a musket at his belt. His face was shaded by the brim of his hat, but he leant against a wall in casual competence, aware of her approach. His head remained bowed.

Constance wet her lips and crossed her arms more firmly across her chest, sticking her chin out. She didn't want any trouble, but if it came to it she wouldn't be afraid to give him what was coming. Her heart skipped a beat, making her breath hitch, but her feet steadfastly kept her walking, her pace speeding up. The silhouette shifted, his gun clinking against his belt.

"My dear," he said, a smile in his voice, "it's unwise for a lady like yourself to be walking alone at such an hour."

Constance slowed, the man blocking her path, but she could recognize that smile anywhere- even in the dark. "You cheeky blighter," she scowled, a smile tugging on the edge of her lips despite her ire. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, you know."

Aramis chuckled, stepping fully out of shadow and into the barely lit part of the street. His eyes twinkled. "Ah, but the element of surprise is the best part."

"You Musketeers," she grumbled, rubbing up and down her arms. "You keep scarin' me like this, you're goin' to end up dead at some point."

"Mm," Aramis agreed, and reached into his inner coat pocket, pulling out a bundle of cloth. Unwrapping it, it proved to be her cloak, and she gasped in delight at the prospect of covering her chilled skin. Fastening it around her shoulders, Aramis said, "Still going to kill me, then?"

"Perhaps not," Constance acquiesced. "But honestly, announce yourselves before you go slinking around the house or in the shadows, hm? For my own peace of mind."

"I'll be sure to remember that," Aramis said kindly, and Constance decided that that was good enough (for now). Offering her his arm, Aramis asked, "walk with me, my lady?"

Constance smiled again in spite of herself. He always could cheer her up. "Of course, M'sieur," she said, and looped her arm around his.

They began strolling, the night warmer and more inviting than before when she was walking alone. Their footsteps echoed on the cobbles, a companionable clacking amidst the silence. "How was the mission?" Constance asked, and Aramis snorted.

"Boring, as usual," he sighed, and met her unamused gaze. He winked. "Except for the daring swordfights, the roguish chases and, of course, your husband's risky rescue."

"Oh?" Constance said, and grinned as Aramis launched into a highly romanticized tale of the adventurous mission of reconnaissance along the Spanish border in lieu of the upcoming war. Aramis strayed from any of the political or worrisome details, instead highlighting just what he'd described- the daring swordfight he, d'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos had found themselves in when they'd been discovered by a courtyard full of guards, the dash into the forest after they'd manage to kill most of them, and then d'Artagnan's jump from what Aramis described as "the top of a twenty foot tree at least!" and the ensuing rescue of the three of them. By the end, Constance was laughing and hanging on his words- for all of Aramis' embellishments, they were entertaining to say the least.

"Well, look at that," Aramis commented, "home at last!"

And indeed they were; he'd managed to walk her all the way home while distracting her, and she smiled at him. "Thank you for escorting me, M'sieur," she said playfully. "It's not as if you live here too!"

Aramis hummed, bowing. "Not tonight, at least," he said, and kissed the top of her hand. "I'm off to the Garrison. Don't worry," he added after he straightened and saw her concern. "I'll be back, won't I? Besides, you won't want me sticking around for your lovely evening." He opened the door for her and gestured for her to enter. "Go on, then. Go get him."

Constance's smile was small and shy this time, and in a moment of tenderness he kissed her forehead lightly, shoving her forwards. "Go on," he repeated, and she stepped over the threshold, the door shutting quietly behind her.

Candles covered each and every surface of their home, reflecting gently in the windowsills and casting golden shadows across the walls. In the center of the room, their kitchen table sat, covered with goblets, plates, and freshly picked roses. D'Artagnan and Athos stood there at the center, a shy smile lighting up her husband's face when he saw her.

"Do you…" his lips quirked. "Happy Anniversary, Constance."

Her heart swelled as she fully took in the sight of the room, her eyes watering against her wishes, blotting out the flickering lights of the candles and making them merge together like a sun. A smile pulled once more at her lips, her face crumpling gently as she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. His breath was reassuring on her neck, his hair tickling her ear, and she whispered, "I love it," and meant _I love you._

She could feel his grin against the side of her cheek. "I'm glad," he answered, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck, stepping away only enough to glance back at Athos.

Athos himself dipped his head at her. "My lady," he said in that half-wry, half-genuine way that he had, and softly placed a bottle of wine in the center of the table. "I believe that your evening awaits. I take my leave." And then he, too, was out the door.

"Is it really just you and I?" Constance breathed, and d'Artagnan's eyes softened at the corners.

"Yes, love," he said, and tucked her head under his chin. "It is."

"What about Porthos?" She said against his collarbone, ear against his heart. "Where's Porthos?"

D'Artagnan hummed. "He's taking care of something for me," he answered, and Constance's brows furrowed. She didn't want to move, though, so didn't ask him about it, instead settling herself more comfortably against his chest as they swayed without music in the candlelit room. "I'm on leave," d'Artagnan finally confided. "Porthos is negotiating right now with Tréville. I'll be with you on leave for at least a month- maybe two, if Porthos can manage it. He promised me that he would."

"You keep your promises," Constance said, grinning into his chest. "I guess I'll have to go to market to get supplies for a whole month." The prospect was beautiful.

"I hope you won't be sick of me," d'Artagnan confessed with a chuckle, and Constance shook her head.

"Sick, of you? Never. Aramis, however…"

He threw back his head and laughed, and it sounded as delightful as Constance remembered it being.

The candlelight bounced around the room, twinkling gently at them.

"It looks like stars," Constance murmured after a time, after she'd been watching the little flames dance gently.

"It reminds me of you," d'Artagnan said.

"Sap," she muttered, but didn't tease him further.

They didn't want to move, so both of them stood there against one another, arms wrapped around each other, softly swaying. Constance breathed him in, his earthy scent, the soap he'd used to wash up when he'd returned from the mission, the smell of wildflowers. He must've picked the roses on the table himself.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, and Constance nodded. He pulled out her chair and gestured for her to sit, so she did, and he served their dinner and sat across from her.

They didn't need to speak, eating their dinner in companionable silence, sipping their wine and trying to catch each other's gaze every now and then. They were shy, for whatever reason- they'd been married now for a year but this was their first, the first time they'd ever had an anniversary together.

Constance found herself thinking that Bonacieux never did anything special for her, and let the thought come, let it lodge itself at the forefront of her mind, the familiar ache of his loss and her life returning to her. She let it stay, her eyes watering in grief for the life that she could have been living all this time.

"Constance?" D'Artagnan asked, his voice tinged in worry. He was suddenly kneeling beside her, her hands cupped in his larger warm ones. "Constance, what's the matter?"

She smiled a watery smile at him, a little laugh bubbling unbidden from her lips. "Nothing," she admitted, and two tears leaked from her eyes and made their way down her cheeks. "Nothing. I'm just- I'm just so happy, d'Artagnan. I'm so, so happy. I love you so much." It was true. It was the truest thing she'd ever said.

"Oh, Constance," he said, his thumbs gingerly wiping her tears away. "I love you. I love you with all my heart."

"I know," she said, her face crumpling further. "I know, I know-"

And then she was crying- crying for the love she could have had, crying for the man she lost, crying for the man she gained, and crying for the love in her heart; the love in her heart that was rising in her chest, the love that gave her the strength to keep going, the love that gave her d'Artagnan, the love that she hoped she would never lose and the kind that she had always hoped she'd find. And she cried for herself, for all the terrible things that had happened to her, and all the lovely things that were promised to come.

And d'Artagnan kept his promises.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, safe in d'Artagnan's arms, kneeling on the floor beside him, wrapped up in his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you d'Artagnan, I love you-"

"Shh, love," he said. "I know, I know."

It had been a year of trials, tribulations, and terrible, terrible things, things Constance wished she had never seen, things that she wished she could save her friends from, her husband from, her family from- but they were alright, everything was alright, because d'Artagnan was here- d'Artagnan, who promised he'd come home and had; d'Artagnan, who loved her with all his heart; d'Artagnan, who was warm and safe and around her.

And her Musketeers, who would always keep their promises.

* * *

_Happy Holidays, viewers. I hope they're (or were) safe and joyous and wonderful. _


	48. We Are Warriors (Daemon AU)

_Alright guys! I know it hasn't been too long since I've posted the last chapter (something that I'm sure you're all so upset over, because I know you so love to wait) but I couldn't stand it anymore. I've been working on this little project since March of 2015 after reading a daemon AU that I wanted to apply to Musketeers. This story has gone through countless edits, cuts, and tweaks, but I think it's turned out really really good, and I'm very proud of it. I almost couldn't wait to present it to you all, but I was in the middle of the crazy too-long-to-name-acronym arc and didn't want to interrupt that. So, here it is, 20,000 words and fifty-eight pages later__._

_Thanks for sticking with me, readers, and I hope you enjoy._

* * *

**_We Are Warriors_**

"Are you sure about this?" Astraea says, staring up at him. They're standing at the very entrance into Paris, noises and sights and smells already sinking in, taking hold. Her eyes are the color of sunlit whiskey.

"I have to do this," d'Artagnan clips, something hot boiling under his skin. He can't bear to look at her- not since she's changed. It's weird and different and _he's _different, some part of him twisted and strange and _wrong_, but he doesn't tell her that. (Daemons don't change, they aren't meant to once they've settled, they only change after something goes _wrong_, some part goes _missing-_)

Even though he doesn't say any of this to her, when she huffs and flicks her tail disdainfully at him, he's sure she already knows.

**~oOOo~**

It was raining, the horses struggling through the mud created by the downpour. As they picked up their feet the mud made slimy, sucking sounds, as if it were trying to trap the horses' hooves to prevent them and their riders from going any further. As it was, the horses- in response to their riders' determination- were too tenacious to allow the mud to properly warn them, and ripped their hooves free to continue on.

Astraea was curled up in d'Artagnan's shirt, pressed against the bare skin of his chest, the rhythm of his heart against her cheek. "How much longer?" She asked him, her cold nose shoved into the hollow where his collarbone dipped into his neck.

D'Artagnan laughed, shaking his head. Raindrops fell from his limp hair onto her big ears, making her shiver and pull them back against her head. "About a day's ride," he answered, frowning when he noticed her chagrin. "If we ride through the night we can be there by morning."

Astraea grumbled quietly, tucking impossibly further against him. Her bushy tail was pushed into one of his coat sleeves and pressed alongside his arm, and was already wet from the rain seeping through the fabric.

D'Artagnan teased softly, "you're not _cold_, are you?"

Astraea stuck her head out of his tunic just enough so he could truly see the intensity of the glare she was sending him.

D'Artagnan's frown deepened, creases forming around his eyes. "I can ask them to stop for the night, perhaps?" He suggested, and Astraea sighed, tucking her face back against his chest, her tail twitching unhappily.

D'Artagnan, likely sensing her discomfort (the same discomfort as his, but he had always been able to handle this sort of thing better than she) wrapped his arms more securely around her, bending lower so the rain hit the back of his head and dripped down his back rather than onto her. He shivered as it crept down his spine and chilled him, but said nothing.

"You don't have to do that," Astraea said quietly, still uncomfortably wet. Water was leaking into her ears, but she couldn't shake them out without exposing them to more rain. "I'm fine."

D'Artagnan's eyes darted to his father, slumped over his horse's neck and bowed with exhaustion, his daemon clutching onto his shoulder with a bruising grip to stay put in the lashing wind.

"It's alright, dearheart," he told Astraea, wincing as the cold pads of her feet pressed against his torso for warmth. "Father looks nearly done with this weather too. I'm sure he'll appreciate a stop."

Astraea nodded weakly, and d'Artagnan squinted through the dark, silent for a time. Through the onslaught of whipping wind and pouring rain, d'Artagnan thought he could see the lights of an inn a little ways ahead, the image growing clearer as they approached.

He took a deep breath and called, "Come on, you're tired, Father. We should stop here."

His father jerked in the saddle, straightening abruptly, Quasale shifting on his shoulder. They had been together for so long that they were completely in sync, so much so that when Alexandre moved, Quasale could stay completely balanced.

"Paris is only a few hours away," his father called in response, voice elevated to better be heard.

"It's okay, d'Artagnan," whispered Astraea. "Really."

D'Artagnan ignored her, reasoning,"Paris will still be there in the morning."

Alexandre let out a chuckle and declared, "look, I could ride all night...but if you're saying you need a rest-!"

The statement was left dangling as Alexandre pulled ahead, leaving his smiling son to trail after him as they approached the inn.

The sky crackled in warning.

D'Artagnan ignored it.

**~oOOo~**

"I told you sleeping with her was a bad idea," growls Astraea as d'Artagnan frantically pushes over the dresser so it blocks the door, head whipping around to find a way out. "If you actually ever _listened _to me-"

"Not now, Astraea!" D'Artagnan snarls, body bent low as he glares at the window. He knows it's what he has to do, that it's his only way out, and they're about to force their way in-

He breaks into a sprint and crashes through the glass, landing in a shower of shards and sharp pain and scrambling to get his feet under him as he takes off, barely registering the fact that Astraea is hot on his heels; he ducks into the marketplace with stumbling, sloppy movements, all too aware of the shouts accompanying the party following him, and there's a half-formed plan in his head, a reckless, stupid one as he spots the rather beautiful girl standing nearby-

"I'll give you five livre to kiss me," he gasps out and then he's kissing her, his lips pressed against hers, the pounding of his pursuers' feet loud as they pass behind him. He breaks away breathlessly, hands still on either side of her face as he says in awe, "that- that actually worked-"

"Oi, you degenerate!" The young woman chokes out as she rears back her arm and slaps him with all her might, making him take several clumsy steps backwards as she throws off his balance. When he rights himself it's to find her levelling a knife at his throat, barking, "touch me again, and I'll gut ya' like a fish!"

D'Artagnan licks his lips and takes another step backwards, nearly tripping over Astraea. In irritation she clamps her teeth down on his wrist, and in anger he kicks her away, ignoring her quiet yelp and the resulting flare of pain in his own side.

"Do I look like a workin' girl to you?!"

He's so disoriented for a moment he doesn't know what she's asked so he nods, but it's the wrong thing to do; the woman takes a huffing, annoyed breath and grits, "this is my best dress! How does this say 'prostitute' to you?!" and oh, he's made a mistake, and figures he should probably retreat before he insults her any further.

"Ah, my apologies, Mademoiselle-"

"It's _Madame-_"

"Madame!" He hastens to correct, sucking in a lungful of air. "I won't trouble you any further." He turns, clutches at his side when it twinges in tenderness, taking small, slow steps to lessen the tug on it. He's suddenly acutely aware of how dizzy he is, the world tilting dangerously with each steps he takes, but the people at the inn can't be far away and he needs to find someplace to hole up for a while until he can find his way to Musketeers' Garrison to confront Athos.

"Are you alright?" The girl asks, voice laced in concern as her vexation is apparently forgotten, and d'Artagnan would smile (she truly was very pretty) but her words seem far away and distant, like he's gone very far in such a short amount of time.

He opens his mouth to respond but he trips forwards, and pain like he's never known lances its way through his chest, so agonizing that he's nearly brought to his knees, a muffled grunt forcing its way up his throat as he hits the ground _hard_, wondering where Astraea is, the pain making the edges of his vision go dark-

**~oOOo~**

He chased her through a meadow, daemons nearby prancing in delirious happiness around each other as their humans danced, two bodies molding into one under the white streaked sky. She pulled him down when they became dizzy and they lay in golden grass, and he threaded his fingers into her daemon's hair, ran a thumb down the bridge of his nose when he pressed up into Athos' hand. She did the same with Eris (and oh, the purrs rumbled under her skin; she had never been happier in her life than she was right now, surrounded by them, pressed against them).

"Never change," he said, and she smiled.

**~oOOo~**

"Did you see that, Constance?" Quinn whispers into her ear, his warmth pressed into the back of her neck. "Did you see? In the marketplace? He _kicked her."_

"Shush," she tells him, wetting the cloth once more and placing it back against the young man's forehead. She doesn't even know his name, and yet he's captured her attention like no one else has- not even her husband. That's a silly thought and it pains her to think it, but it's true.

"He kicked his daemon and forgot about her," Quinnallian argues, and Constance purses her lips. "That's not the makings of a stable person, Constance. And his daemon is a _fox- _you know that that means _something bad-_"

"Hush now," she commands, and Quinn falls silent, quietly simmering as he jumps from her arm to the bed, studying their guest's face cautiously. He has a nice face, Constance finds herself thinking; gentle now that it's smoothed out. The creases of pain around his eyes have eased, the lines around his mouth gone, softening his expression. He doesn't look dangerous or manipulative or cunning; nothing like people with fox daemons should. "Hush now," she says again as she moves aside a stray lock of hair that has slipped into his eyes.

She glances down at his feet, where his daemon lays. She's still and unmoving, a blob of red amidst the grey of the room, curled up and quiet. Worry pricks at her, harder that it should, and she tries to bat it away unsuccessfully. Quinn looks at her with big brown eyes as he noses along the other daemon's snout, careful not to touch her.

"He kicked his daemon, and then forgot her," he repeats. "He's not normal."

Constance opens her mouth as if to respond-

But then the young man is up and moving and he's so abrasive, rude and unthankful as he scrambles around to pull on his boots and his shirt and doesn't even apologize for his appalling behavior.

"You're a beautiful woman," he dismisses. "I'm sure you're used to it."

She huffs and crosses her arms."I should have just left you in the gutter," she tells him, refusing to look at him.

He turns to her and she looks up, and his eyes are soft and fractured and hurt. "My apologies," he says. "I'm not always so ill-mannered. May I inquire the name of my savior?"

Against her better judgement, she feels herself softening. "Bonacieux," she responds. "Constance Bonacieux. And this is Quinn." She gestures to her daemon, balancing precariously on her shoulder. D'Artagnan spares him a smile, and it warms him from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

He looks down at his own daemon, who doesn't look back. They aren't touching. He looks back at Constance. "Athos killed my father, Constance," he says quietly. "That's why I must face him." He hesitates. "I'm d'Artagnan. Please think kindly of my name, if you think of it at all."

Then he turns on his heel and whisks away, and he's off to fight Athos at the Musketeer Garrison, and it's suicide and she knows it, and his fractured eyes stay with her as she watches his battered form make the wrong turn in the street.

"He isn't normal, all right," she murmurs softly, donning a coat and her hat and turning the right way in the hopes she can beat him there. "He's got no self preservation; he's goin' to get himself killed."

"Constance," Quinn hisses in rebuke. "No."

As she steps out of the house, she ignores him.

**~oOOo~**

It wasn't as if the stares bothered him.

Once, perhaps they would've- back when he was self-conscious and young and awkward around women, stumbling through his flirtations and doing his best to look charming even when he knew he looked flustered. Back then, he would've sputtered under the many pairs of eyes on him that remained trained on him even once he was down the street.

She had always been so wounded when he'd duck his head- like he was ashamed of her, even when he assured her he wasn't. He didn't like the attention; hadn't known how to embrace it. "It's alright," he assured Kaelyn, his lips curling up into a smile as he stroked her nose. Still, she was hurt, and he could feel her sensitivity deep in his chest.

So he grit his teeth and learned how to enjoy it, how to lift his head high and look confident as their eyes followed him, trailed after her. He learned how to flirt without cringing, learned to look endearing when he was flustered. It worked. He held his head high.

"Thank you," whispered Kaelyn.

"Of course," said Aramis warmly. "I'd do anything for you."

**~oOOo~**

Athos is numb by the time they fetch him and bring him out into the courtyard, Eris clutching tightly to his shoulder. They had been separated for the night- far enough to ache deep in their chests but close enough that that was all it remained- an ache. Now, Eris is huddled into him, close enough that he can feel her feathers brushing against his cheek. She would never admit it, but he can feel her fear swirling in the pit of his stomach, a nausea worse than any caused by drinking. He wishes he could take his numbness and give it to her. It would be of more use to her than it is to him.

They're both chained to the wall- Athos by his wrists and Eris by her ankles, but she is permitted to remain on his shoulder. The man's eyes soften when he cuffs her with gloves on, his own daemon skirting closer to his legs. Their pity means nothing.

"Take aim!"

The line lift their muskets, shoulder them against their chins. He shouldn't feel as ready as he does because he truly does not want to leave this life, his friends, his brothers. He should not be so eager to greet death, to see her in it, to be with her, because she was the one who tore away his life in the first place. He can't help it, though, the memories; he has no ale to drown them out nor friends to substitute them with- it's just he and Eris and pistols and their looming death, the death he shouldn't want, shouldn't want-

Eris presses her forehead to Athos' temple and whispers, "oh, Olivier, _Olivier-"_

It's the last straw, and Athos clenches his eyes shut and shouts: "Come on _shoot_, damn you!"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

Eris lets out a shuddering breath that brushes against the stubble on Athos' cheek, and Aramis descends the stairs, holding up a piece of parchment. "If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die," he advises, then explains, "your release, signed by the King." He passes it off to the squad commander and snags the keys from his other hand.

Aramis bends close to them as he unlocks Athos, head bowed low in concentration, his hat hiding his face. "Come now, Eris," he says quietly as he removes her chains, fingers gently smoothing out stray feathers. "You weren't afraid, now, were you?" His voice is teasing but kind.

Eris clatters her beak at him and nips his cheek, but she flutters her wings in thanks. Athos gives Aramis the strongest smile he can muster, glancing between him and Porthos.

"I'd thought I'd finally shaken you lot off," he says wryly, and Brinley snorts from Porthos' feet but says nothing.

"Believe me, there are other ways," Porthos assures and grins at him, and Eris clamps down on Athos' ear when he goes to reply. Some things don't need saying.

He's well aware of what the new boy- d'Artagnan- has done for him, has risked to free him, and dips his head in thanks when he passes. When he meets death, he'd like it to be on his own terms; it has been made painfully clear to him that even firing squad would be too noble a death for him.

"One foot in the grave already," Eris murmurs to him.

Even as he feels d'Artagnan's radiant smile at his back, Athos can't help but agree.

**~oOOo~**

She was afraid.

Today, she was supposed to feel beautiful- she knew she was. She was supposed to be happy- overjoyed, even; today was supposed to be the day that she started her life, that she learned how to be a woman. Today was supposed to be a happy day.

Angrily she wiped the tears from her cheeks in annoyance- at herself and at her weakness. Today she was supposed to feel lucky. Today she was supposed to feel blessed.

Everyone had told her these things, and yet no one had mentioned how trapped she would feel. Her wrists held a phantom ache of shackles that had never been there before but soon she would never escape.

"Constance," whispered Quinn, tucked into the back of her wedding dress. "Constance, I don't want to do this. Please, don't make me."

There was a lump in her throat that she didn't know how to clear in order to speak and reassure him. She couldn't even reassure herself. "It'll- it'll be alright, Quinn," she managed, choking back her tears. "It'll- it's going to be fine. He's- he's a well off man, Quinn. We'll be provided for."

"I don't care," said Quinn thickly. "I don't care, Constance; I don't care."

"Shh," she hushed, wishing she could reach up and stroke down his back. He was tucked into her wedding dress and hiding against the back of her neck, so she couldn't reach her arm all the way back. She settled for patting his head softly. "It'll be alright."

Quinn whimpered and the sound made something inside her twinge, as if someone had reached in and plucked at her heartstrings. "How do you know?"

Constance couldn't force herself to answer.

She hated lying to him.

**~oOOo~**

"Prisoners escaping!"

Aramis is thrown into the fray as prisoners stream from the entryways to the Chatelet, unsheathing his sword as daemons and humans alike rush at him as if to overcome him, frantically searching the faces of each before he strikes them down to ensure he doesn't accidentally injure d'Artagnan. Kaelyn slams her hooves down against the cobbles, the noise bouncing off the walls as she attacks, golden dust bursting forth and lighting up the courtyard in a mosaic of sunbeams.

"Aramis!" Kaelyn shouts, and Aramis whirls around just in time to redirect the man's musket so it's no longer pointed at the mass of men.

"Don't shoot!" Aramis commands. "There's a Musketeer in there!"

There's a shout from the other end of the courtyard, the clatter of gunfire, and then there's a hush, and as Aramis turns, his blood runs cold. "Aramis," Kaelyn whispers, and he swallows, his eyes wide.

"Stop," orders Vadim quietly, unnecessarily, pressing the barrel of a pistol to the Queen's temple. At their feet, Vadim's coyote daemon has its jaws locked around the neck of the Queen's daemon, who bends at an odd angle to compensate. One move and the Queen's daemon is killed- and so is she. "Or your Queen dies."

Tréville and Athos share a look as Eris snarls on Athos' shoulder, and Kaelyn huffs a breath through her nose, eyes narrowing. Aramis shifts where he stands, his sword clenched his his hand as he meets d'Artagnan's gaze; he's got a cut on his cheek that's bleeding sluggishly- earned after he entered the Chatelet- but it doesn't look serious. Even so, it makes Aramis' blood boil, restarting the flow of it again. Now that the initial flood of fear has gone, furious protection is quickly taking it's place.

"Open the gate," Vadim says calmly, and Tréville looks to d'Artagnan.

It's Astraea, however, who meets Tréville's eyes and nods.

"Do as he says," Tréville agrees reluctantly, and the Musketeers standing behind him begin to raise the gate.

"You see," Vadim says, grinning as he turns back to a pale-faced d'Artagnan. "I told you they'd let me walk out of here."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Hurt the Queen and we're all dead," he says, and Vadim scowls at him. "You don't need her anymore, Vadim. _Let's go." _D'Artagnan's voice hushes in nervousness as he desperately tries to sound steady, in control. Unafraid.

Vadim grins a jackal's grin. "Your Majesty, my apologies," he breathes, and she shudders. A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek, and it makes Aramis' chest ache. "I hope that, apart from this, you've enjoyed your trip." He presses his lips lewdly to the tear on her cheek, licking it clean as he releases her. At their feet, his daemon tosses the Queen's aside and bounds after its human, cackling madly in the way coyotes have.

"SHOOT THEM! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"

The gunfire begins once more and the Queen stands there in the middle of it, panic written across her face as she begins to sob, and Aramis doesn't think as he breaks into a sprint and crashes into her, toppling them both and pinning her to the ground, covering her body with his own. Kaelyn's footsteps echo behind his and he feels a jolt as she rips the Queen's daemon away from the action to the very edges of their reach, where an ache begins in his chest from their distance.

He looks down at the Queen, her eyes screwed shut as another tear escapes. Tenderly, he wipes it away with his thumb. "Look at me," he says softly. "Hey, look at me." She turns to him with wide, frightened blue eyes, the color of a clear sky. They're full of fear and trust and they're seeking reassurance, and he tightens the hold he has around her, soothing, "it's over. I've got you."

She wets her lips, her eyes still moist. They're clearer than they were, however, and it takes a moment for the lack of gunfire to register in Aramis' mind.

"So you have," she answers softly, and her brows furrow. "You're hurt," she adds, and gestures gently to the cut behind his ear.

He smiles. "It's alright, Your Majesty," he says. "Come. Let us get you to safety."

**~oOOo~**

"Oh," said Astraea, canting her head. "This is it."

D'Artagnan twitched curiously as he felt something slot in his bones, like there'd been some sort of weight missing that, now there, felt completely natural. "Huh," he said, and turned to look at her. She was looking at him with a shy expression on her face- almost hesitant. "What?" He asked, brows furrowing in concern. "What's the matter?"

She shrugged as well as she could, big ears flopping around. "I don't know," she said quietly, eyes downcast. "You just don't seem...happy." His brows furrowed further, and he ducked his head so he could see her eyes, see what she was thinking. They were _hurt_. Fractured.

She was afraid; afraid that he wasn't going to accept her. But how could he not?

"It's okay," he assured, smiling as he opened his arms in invitation- because he could feel her fear of rejection and the uncharacteristically timid quaking of her body. They were silly little things. He loved her- it was as simple as that.

She leapt into his arms and tucked herself up, shoving her nose into the dip between his neck and collarbone, rubbing one huge ear against his chin in self-reassurance. He tightened his arms around her, shielding her quietly from the rest of the world so that it was just the two of them, that they were just themselves, and they were just together.

"It's alright," he repeated softly, running a hand down her small back. She was so little, slotted in his arms, her tiny paws pressing lightly against his chest. "It's alright. I'll love you no matter what, dearheart."

"Promise?" She asked, sounding very small, her big eyes meeting his as her ears flopped forward. Her features were almost too big for her face, making her look fey and elfin. Something swelled in his chest, fond and loving- she had no need to fear, and he wished she'd trust that. He'd just have to assure her until she believed it. He didn't mind.

"I promise," he answered, summoning all the sincerity in his heart. "I promise."

**~oOOo~**

Porthos and he stand side by side, awkwardly holding their hats to their hearts, their daemons standing at attention. Aramis bounces idly on the balls of his feet.

"The way I look at it," Porthos says after a few more moments of silence, "you saved her life, so she's probably grateful."

Aramis hums in acquiescence, but after another minute counters, "but we did put her in danger in the first place, so she might want to see us whipped."

"Aramis!" Kaelyn hisses from his side, and Brinley makes an unhappy chirruping noise from Porthos' feet at Aramis' cheek.

Porthos makes a sound at the back of his throat. "I hadn't thought o' that," he admits, and his brows scrunch together as a pout rises to his lips. "Oh, you've upset me now."

Before Aramis can respond, the double doors open as the Queen enters, and both he and Porthos bow as she declares, "Monsieur Aramis! Bravest of the all the King's Musketeers!"

Aramis smiles, meeting her eyes. "Only amongst the greatest, Your Majesty," he says humbly, and Porthos raises an eyebrow at him as they straighten.

The Queen's gaze flits from Aramis to Porthos and back again, and she clears her throat softly. "Perhaps your friend would grant us a moment's privacy?"

Porthos looks to Aramis then to the Queen, bows, and he and Brinley make their exit.

Immediately once they've gone, Anne's eyebrows scrunch together in worry, a little line forming between them as her lips crease. Aramis' eyes soften. "Does it hurt?" She asks, her fingers brushing against the little cut he'd obtained when shielding her.

"Oh, not at all," he's quick to assure, but the look in her eyes has him yielding to his desires and he backtracks, saying softly, "well, perhaps it is- a little sore."

Anne's eyes melt even further, pools of bright blue, tender around the edges. "Poor, gallant Aramis," she simpers, her fingertips like feathers as they brush against the skin behind his ear. She straightens, her hand going to clutch at the cross around her neck, and she almost smiles as she lifts it from her neck. "Accept this gift as a token of your Queen's gratitude," she says, and gingerly places it around his neck, careful to avoid the cut, the corners of her lips curling into a smile. "May it keep you safe always."

He stares up at her, at her beautiful, lovely face, her glittering eyes, and can feel the spark in his chest that ignited when Kaelyn had touched her daemon, had lain over him to save him, and feels a faint thrum through the cross laying against his chest. He pretends quietly that it's her heartbeat echoing into his.

"You know," Porthos says from abruptly beside him, and he jumps as he shakes himself out of his stupor. He hadn't realized she'd gone, or that Porthos had returned. "You were givin' 'er The Stare."

"What stare?" It's clear Porthos doesn't buy his denial, and Aramis sighs as he admits, "she's a very attractive woman."

"Yeah, but she's not a woman," Porthos argues through gritted teeth. "She's the Queen."

"Or 'ave you forgotten abou' Adele Bessette already?" Brinley scoffs from Porthos' feet. Aramis glares at her defensively.

"Adele chose the Cardinal over me," he protests. "She left Paris!" Kaelyn nudges him in the shoulder firmly, reminding him to keep his voice down. Scowling, he lowers his voice. "It's not as if I'm choosing one over the other."

"You best not be choosin' at all," Porthos advises, and Brinley rolls her eyes. "Please, set your sights lower for all our sakes."

Aramis sighs and acquiences, bobbing his head.

But later, he can't stop feeling the beat of her heart through the cross around his neck, and can't find it in himself to take it off.

He's sure it'll be fine.

**~oOOo~**

The night was cold but the fire was warm, and the camaraderie made the wind less biting. The forest around them was soft and silent, little flakes of snow quietly slipping to the ground; despite this, the Musketeers were managing to remain dry, the trees providing ample shelter from the snow. The training exercise would be over within the next day, and Aramis suspected all of the new recruits would be glad to be out of the elements.

Humans and daemons alike were laughing as they sat around the campfire trading old mission stories for the recruits, who managed to add in their own spin to what would be considered mild tales- enough of a spin to make them entertaining.

Kaelyn stood from the icy ground and shook herself, a shiver running through her. "Oh, what's the matter, darling? Cold?" Aramis asked, and Kaelyn playfully tugged at his hair.

"Cold enough," she responded. "I'm ready to retire, if it's all the same to you."

"Hm," agreed Aramis, standing and brushing himself off too of the scarce snowflakes that had collected on his lap.

"Aw, Aramis," said Marsac, leaning casually against Malikha. "Retiring so soon? Don't tell me you're worn out from a little training session in your old age."

"If I'm old then _you're_ ancient, considering you're older than me," Aramis snarked, a grin pulling at his lips. "And hardly tired; it's the cold that's settling in my bones that makes me appreciate a warm tent and a soft bedroll."

"You'll mess up your back on those," Marsac dismissed. "I prefer the ground myself, honestly. And considering Malikha is pretty warm-" Malikha rumbled deep in his throat in agreement- "I can't understand the sentiment. But go on; go retire. You need all the beauty sleep you can get."

"That's just cruel," Aramis said flatly, and Marsac threw back his head and laughed. "If anyone needs the beauty sleep around here, it's you. How many women have you been with?"

"Would you truly like to hear of those exploits, Aramis?"

Aramis stopped, considering. "No," he decided, and smiled once more.

"Sleep well, my friend," Marsac said, and Aramis nodded.

"You as well."

**~oOOo~**

"It was a good trick," Vadim says. "It should've worked." Beside him, Narnicali nips his fingers softly in agreement.

Some of Astraea's rage trickles in through their connection, as distant as it is, and d'Artagnan closes the gap between them so he's near Vadim's ear. His voice is _almost _a snarl. "It nearly did."

And then Narnicali shimmers and slowly dissolves into dust, hovering around them in the air for a few moments, casting everything in an ethereal glow that is unbefitting to a man like Vadim.

D'Artagnan absently reaches down to smooth the hair that's rucked up on Astraea's back, and jumps away hastily when she snarls at him, teeth flashing as she nearly rips his fingers off in one violent, lashing motion.

It's a warning, pure and simple and plain and painful, and d'Artagnan shakes it off, pretending not to notice the other men's glances branding the skin of his back and trying desperately to erase the terror that is surely in his gaze.

He must not succeed because Aramis outstretches a hand, beginning, "D'Artagnan-" but before he can get any further d'Artagnan brushes past him.

"I'm fine," he says curtly, trailing after Astraea with his head held two inches too high to be genuine confidence, but he can sense that the matter is dropped for now.

For all his appearances, d'Artagnan is deeply unsettled, something fluttering nervously in his chest that hadn't been there before. He'd known of her sudden dislike of him, of being near him, but he didn't think it had pushed so deep. Had his reflexes been a millisecond slower, she would have taken his fingers; perhaps even his whole hand.

She was wild, and it scared him, because it meant he was wild too.

He forces himself not to glance back at Vadim's crumpled form, the dust sprayed all around him like gold fluttering down from the heavens that was once Vadim's Narnicali; thinks about how closely those two beaten things could have been he and Astraea and shivers, and hopes that the Musketeers behind him don't notice the way he balls his hands into fists and shoves them into his jacket pockets, forcing himself to breathe.

After all, he thinks- foxes aren't much different from coyotes.

**~oOOo~**

"We trust him," Brinley reminded him quietly, gleaming eyes narrowed at the back of Charon's head.

"Sure we do," Porthos answered absently, hesitating where he stood, and Brinley snorted as she transfigured into a mouse to hide in his pocket. Porthos and Brinley had learned quickly on the streets about the daemon-snatchers, the _dust-seekers_, and had come up with defenses accordingly that made Porthos feel at least a mite better. Brinley, of course, hadn't been the biggest fan of hiding- she was a brewing storm, a clap of thunder, a streak of lightning- quick and fast and ominous and _obvious_. This hiding away was driving her mad.

"Then why are you so nervous?" She asked, sounding smug.

"I ain't."

_"Liar."_

He forgot- he never could hide anything from her. Not for long. "He's just…" He sensed more than felt Brinley sigh, her grey fur soft against the calloused pads of his fingers. He felt her ears twitch against his palm. "It's just tha'...we can't trust 'im. Charon. He seems nice enough and 'e's been lookin' out for us so far, but we can't trust 'im."

"No," she said, and something inside Porthos twisted terribly, like it had been waiting to hear those exact words. "No," she repeated, nestling into his palm. "We can never trust anyone again."

**~oOOo~**

"Oh," Eris whispers as they come upon the house, wings fluttering weakly. "Oh."

Athos is silent. Something deep in his heart aches and he struggles to squash it, sickeningly forces himself to swallow it. It's hard to keep at bay with the shame that's swirling in his stomach but somehow he manages it, his face like stone.

Eris shifts, her wings shuffling once more, grief rising too quickly in her heart.

_Now is not the time, _he snaps, startling her enough that she jumps a little, claws digging into his shoulder in rebuke. He can't bring himself to care.

"Now then," Bonaire says, his daemon calmly perched on his shoulder. For all their rules, they aren't cruel, and after their time in the Chatelet separated Athos and Eris had been reluctant to inflict that on people, even someone as disgusting as Bonnaire.

Bonaire continues, unaware of his luck- or perhaps just unthankful for it. "This is lovely, isn't it?"

His insolence pricks at Athos and Eris both, and Athos refrains from punching Bonaire's too-pretty face in. Eris shows no such restraint, clacking her beak at him warningly as she leans off Athos' shoulder and clatters in his direction. Bonaire's daemon rears up and flares its wings in a show that is clearly meant to be intimidating, but Eris is ridiculously bigger, flaring her own so that they're nearly twice the size of Bonaire's daemon Sicaru's. Sicura scuttles away and bows low, pressing her face to the back of Bonaire's neck, and Eris clicks her beak in savage pleasure.

_Parrots are weak creatures,_ she says fiercely in disgust. _But they're cunning._

She's referring to Porthos' earlier conversation with Bonaire, and they both know it. Porthos, for all of his positive attributes, is the cat who was killed by its own curiosity.

_Now now, _Athos responds mildly, calmer now that he's distracted. _Porthos can handle himself, you know. He's not an idiot. _

_He's been shot, Athos_, Eris says heatedly, nipping his ear in irritation. It stings, but Athos doesn't complain, and they don't speak again for a while.

They take care of Porthos and Brinley, both of whom need patching up (nothing serious, which relieves both Eris and Athos in equal, unadmitted measures). D'Artagnan and Astraea are tense and skirt around each other, stubbornly avoiding confrontation of any sort, their muscles bunched as if they're going to attack one another. It's worrisome, and makes Eris uneasy.

_Athos, _she insists again for the third time, _they need help-_

_D'Artagnan is not a child, _Athos barks, and Eris falls silent in hot anger. _He needs no help from me._

_They're broken, _Eris argues.

_Their problem, _Athos replies, and Eris huffs.

D'Artagnan and he watch as Aramis works on Porthos' stitches in silence, one simmering and the other trying desperately to avoid his musings, occasionally forcing himself away from certain topics. D'Artagnan sighs, rubs at his face, and turns on his heel.

"And where are you going?" Athos asks dryly, unperturbed when d'Artagnan doesn't turn back around when he responds.

"Air," he explains curtly, and Astraea mutely, moodily follows, sending a look of pure annoyance at d'Artagnan's back.

"I told you," Eris murmurs, and Athos doesn't bother with an answer.

He just follows at a sedated pace, slow enough that he won't be seen, close enough to stop them both from doing something stupid. Caring hurts- or perhaps it's just because he's back in the house in which the last person he cared about in such a way was-

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue.

"Don't think about it too much," Eris tells him from his shoulder, digging her talons in so hard it's painful. "Don't think about it."

He tries not to, but a traitorous thought flits through his brain- _if parrots are so cunning, why wasn't Anne's daemon one?_

"Don't," says Eris sharply, nipping his ear so hard it draws blood. "Don't."

Athos doesn't complain.

**~oOOo~**

He jerked awake to the hissing of his name, starting violently and upsetting Kaelyn. _"Sh!_" Hushed someone harshly as they seized him by the front of the shirt and thrusted his weapon to his chest, his musket alongside. "We have to move now!"

His mind finally caught up and he thrashed, freeing himself, pausing when he recognized Malikha's familiar shape in the darkness. _"Marsac?!"_ Aramis hissed, and Marsac shushed him curtly, drawing back the flap of the tent and peering out, musket at the ready. "Marsac, what's going on?!"

"Ambush," he responded shortly, and Aramis was immediately on alert, Kaelyn going from frightened to wired in seconds. Crouching low, Aramis crept forwards to peer out too, his eyes quickly accustoming to the darkness and plucking awkwardly sloped shapes out of the blackness. "Wait for my cue," breathed Marsac.

Then he charged, the gunfire echoing through the forest and upsetting the quiet.

The wind was biting as Aramis broke out of the tent and fired his own weapon, sending the nearest man down; immediately the camp was alive with activity, people scattering and falling and crying as they were struck down. Cries for mothers rang out into the night as clear as the gunshots and the forest was alight with bursts of golden light, daemons keening as they died-

And Aramis turned and couldn't find Kaelyn, couldn't find her-

And then there was pain in his side like he'd never known, and he was on the ground, and the forest was quiet.

When he came back to himself, Kaelyn was pressed against his side, flush against him as she keened, "oh, Rene, Rene-" as Marsac shuddered beside him, rocking, sobs escaping from his lips as he whispered, "it should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been-"

**~oOOo~**

"D'ARTAGNAN!" Astraea yowls at the same time d'Artagnan is leaping from his horse and then they're hurling themselves through the air, towards the flaming, smoking house. It's collapsing; the windows have already broken and half the roof has already sunken, and there's a woman slinking away, and d'Artagnan would love to go after her, find out what she wants, and he's_ this close_ to following her-

"D'Artagnan!" Astraea screams as she throws herself against the door, unable to make it budge, and he turns his attention away from the woman's retreating form and back to the scorching house, towards the door that Astraea is trying to get through.

"Move," he commands, and she snarls at him, throwing herself against it again. It still won't open, and she's hurting herself, and d'Artagnan's patience is nonexistent. "_Move_, dammit!"

Astraea does what she's told for once and scrambles out of the way, and d'Artagnan shoulders the door open, picking his way past it and immediately rearing backwards at the smoke and the ash that assaults him. "Athos," he shouts, squinting as he attempts to peer through the flames. Astraea comes up alongside him, covered in ash. "Athos, can you hear me?!"

He skirts around the debris, the ominous creaking of the house causing things to shift and fall, patches of burning ceiling collapsing by the second. The ground is aflame, fire licking at d'Artagnan's heels wherever he steps, so much so that he has to dance around to get anywhere; nevertheless, he slams down on his hands and knees, hissing and violently pushing himself to his feet when his hands begin to burn. He looks down. They're blistering.

"Astraea!" He calls over the crackling of burning wood, and she turns, her eyes ablaze. "Come."

She doesn't argue, merely leaping up into his waiting arms and tucking against his chest. The pads of her feet are burned, he notes, and guilt- hot and broiling- spills over into his chest.

Astraea bites his chin hard enough that blood erupts from the puncture wounds, and he rears away, nearly dropping her as he swears. "We need to find Athos and Eris," she barks when he turns raging eyes at her, and d'Artagnan shakes himself, dashing over another pile of burning furniture because she's right and there's nothing he can do about her now.

"Athos!" He shouts once more, inhaling the smoke-filled air and coughing as it invades his lungs and strangles him. "Athos!"

There's a choked off screech, a confused clacking sound- Eris. D'Artagnan spins on his heel, shielding his eyes when a sudden gust of wind from the broken windows causes sparks to fly up at his face. "Athos, Eris?!"

"d'Art-" more choking, a screech as she tries to clear her throat- "d'Artagnan?!"

"Eris!" He screams hoarsely, knocking himself against a table and leaving himself a long streak of burnt skin low on his hip. "Eris?" He spots Athos' prone figure on the ground and his heart leaps into his throat, and Astraea rips herself from his arms and bounds over to him, injured paws pressing against his chest as she bites at his shirt, tugging. She's trying to drag him. She's too little.

"My God- MOVE, ASTRAEA, DAMMIT!"

Astraea snaps at him and skirts away, hackles raised as she scruffs the feathers at the back of Eris' neck and lifts her like she would a kit, tail lashing as d'Artagnan struggles to hoist Athos over his shoulders. "Athos, it's me, it's d'Artagnan," he says when he's forced to let Athos slump to the ground. "Athos, get up. Come on, get up. GET UP!"

Athos stirs, mouth twisting into a grimace as he moves; nevertheless, he stumbles to his feet and, leaning dependently on d'Artagnan, he allows himself to be dragged. "Eris?" He asks, coughing, and d'Artagnan grits his teeth, distrust too high in his throat for his liking when he considers his answer.

"Astraea has her," he growls finally, and if Athos notices the bite to it, he says nothing. D'Artagnan drags the two of them out of the house just in time, and they collapse on the front lawn panting and scorched and covered in ash but safe, and sure enough there Astraea and Eris are, coughing but unhurt. Astraea is licking at Eris' feathers, checking for wounds, preening her like another bird might. Eris sits there and endures it, allowing the fox daemon to curl around her like she's being protected.

"We don't need this," Eris tells d'Artagnan, her eyes bearing straight into his as she casually breaks taboo, completely uncaring of the consequences. "We don't need this, d'Artagnan. We're fine."

D'Artagnan takes a deep breath- about to call Eris on her bluff. Astraea growls at him, eyes dark, and he pauses, his mouth open still as if he's still going to speak. "Yeah," he says. "You are."

Athos's gaze flickers to him from where it had been trained on the burning house. "We're fine," he repeats flatly.

Astraea nips his fingers, and Athos turns away.

**~oOOo~**

"Has she settled then, Porthos?" Flea laughed and Lukia barked, loud and merry, as he skipped around Brinley. Porthos felt it deep in his bones, only eleven years old- but Flea's daemon had settled when she was eight, much younger than any of the other Court children. That was alright; that was okay. Brinley and he, they looked out for Flea and Luke, and she and Luke looked out for Porthos and Brinley (especially Brinley, because Brinley was a spectacular sort of reckless) and so it was alright. It was okay. It wasn't like he could complain, after all; Flea was his only friend, and he liked having her.

His attention turning to Brinley, he studied her, a smile tugging at his lips. She was a mass of muscle just like he was, and she grinned at him and bounced, claws tapping on the ground as she pounced about and danced around Lukia.

"She's settled, yeah," he said, and felt the thin layer of _what's-it-called _clotting thick over his skin, over his eyelashes, making him a man.

"What do you think then, Porthos?" Brinley grinned. "How do I look?"

She was always beautiful, his Brinley, but he admitted that out of all the things she could've settled as, this suited her best.

**~oOOo~**

"How, in _God's name_, did he escape?!" Tréville roars, slamming his hands down against his desk.

Aramis and d'Artagnan shift nervously, their daemons standing behind them mutely.

Athos goes to great lengths to look completely unshaken. "We lost him in the grounds," he answers levelly, careful to keep his gaze away from his two other friends.

Eris sighs. _A pair of worse liars I've never seen._

Tréville raises an eyebrow, and Aramis adds, "he just, er, got away." He sounds nervous and edgy, and Kaelyn snorts quietly behind him, falling silent when Tréville's daemon stalks around to stare at her.

Tréville turns to d'Artagnan, who is clearly attempting to look as unconcerned as Athos and, just as clearly, is failing. "And you," Tréville says lowly. "You didn't see him either?"

D'Artagnan swallows. "I, um, slipped." From behind him, Astraea does her best to stifle a bark of laughter.

_Start praying for them, Athos, _Eris advises.

_You know I'm not a religious man, _Athos responds. _God wouldn't heed my words._

_I don't think it matters at this point, _she replies heavily._ The situation is desperate enough._

Tréville lowers his head in disbelief. "You. Slipped."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Wet grass?"

Tréville straightens and takes a sharp breath, his eyes bearing holes through d'Artagnan's skull. It looks painful, and Athos doesn't envy d'Artagnan his position. "There's a killer on the loose," Tréville growls, "and the security of the nation hangs_ by a thread, _but at least_ little d'Artagnan_ didn't get _a nasty bruise."_

D'Artagnan winces, cringing.

"You're dismissed," Tréville spits. "All of you. Get out."

Athos doesn't think he's seen the two of them move faster in the whole time he's known them.

_Is this when I start praying? _Athos asks, and Eris sighs.

_Well, it's too late **now**._

**~oOOo~**

The first that Aramis notices? _Marsac's daemon has changed._

It shouldn't have as much an impact as it does; after all, Eris certainly changed, but Aramis doesn't know from what. He suspects Astraea, too, changed, but he isn't brave enough to ask about something so personal, and doesn't have the will to do so now. But Marsac knows he notices- how can he not? And it's something so jarring simply because he had never imagined Malikha could ever be anything else than what she'd settled as.

Aramis thought that it wouldn't be fair- to Fate, to God, to Marsac himself- if he didn't try to help Marsac this time. Marsac had saved his life in Savoy when he could have easily left Aramis for dead, but he didn't; even dragged him to safety after he'd been injured. Malikha had carried Kaelyn on her back. Marsac had cried.

But that Marsac died five years ago, and Aramis knows it. He can see it.

"This has to end here, Aramis," Marsac says, and Aramis desperately, desperately wishes he didn't have to do what he knows he must. "You know that."

He does know, and it's the worst feeling in the world.

He wets his lips, ignoring Kaelyn's wail as he forces himself to do it, to kill the last of his friends of Savoy, to kill the only living person who could understand the horrors he'd seen that day, the voices that fill his nightmares. "I'm sorry, old friend," he says, and he means it, and it hurts so much.

"Better to die a Musketeer than to live like a dog," Marsac wobbles, his eyes flickering to Malikha, who curls up with her head on his trembling chest, whimpering softly. Aramis purses his lips, trying to keep his emotions at bay- because she'd changed and Aramis had no longer trusted her because people like Vadim have jackal daemons, not honest people, not good people, not people who come out of things unscarred-

Kaelyn makes a noise at the back of her throat, whispering, "Marsac-"

Then Malikha bursts into golden dust and glitters like sunbeams, golden like the lion she once was as she rests delicately over her human, a final, protective layer against all the hate in the world.

Grief like he's never known flares in his chest because he is the last one, the last one to have witnessed hell, and Kaelyn presses against his side, flush against him as she keens, "oh, Rene, Rene-"

**~oOOo~**

"I don't like this, Aramis," Kaelyn murmurs to him as the clapping of pots and pans grows louder the further into the Court they venture. "I don't like this at all."

He knows- he can feel the nervousness swirling inside her. "It's alright," he says easily, picking his way around the stalls and watching his footing for any of the smaller daemons. They can stray far from their humans, the daemons of the Court. "We'll pop in and pop out. Easy as it comes."

From d'Artagnan's side, Astraea snorts.

They go a little ways further, the clapping of the pans growing faster and impossibly louder. "Why are they doing that?" Asks d'Artagnan, brows low on his forehead. His hand lays on the hilt of his sword; a sure indicator that he's nervous.

"It's a warning," explains Aramis, glancing up at the dour faces around them. "Do nothing unless you are attacked."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Where are we?"

"The Court of Miracles," Athos answers, eyeing the crowd warily. "Keep Astraea close, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan wets his lips once more- a nervous tick- and nods, jerking his head at his daemon until he can feel her warmth against his leg. Aramis turns back around and draws Kaelyn closer still.

The further into the Court they venture the farther the daemons wander, Aramis finds, and Lyn presses impossibly closer to his side, forcing him to sling an arm over her back as she makes her body flush with his. She's frightened- she's trembling. He tightens his arm.

Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Astraea curled into d'Artagnan's neck, bushy tail tucked into the front of his tunic as she dangles over his shoulders. Aramis is sure that she was something small before she changed; daemons, even slight like red foxes, don't cling like this if they're bigger than someone's forearm. (He has seldom seen them touch, and that they're doing so now speaks volumes.)

Beyond, Eris is as stoic as ever, glaring at daemons as they pass and snarling at the unwelcome strangers, but her wings are rustling on her back, restless. Aramis imagines there's something desperate and unsettled perched in Athos' chest (just as Eris is perched on his shoulder) and he knows they'll have to go back.

"Come," he says, looking up at the Court-goers, still clattering pots and pans warningly. "We can't stay here. It's too dangerous."

"What about Porthos?" Says d'Artagnan worriedly, his gaze flickering up nervously.

"He'll be safe for now," Aramis says reluctantly, his gut churning at the thought of leaving Porthos alone here, despite everything. Porthos can take care of himself, sure- but even so, it's hard. It feels too much like abandonment. He struggles through his next sentence- "He has friends here."

_Rene, _whispers Kaelyn.

_We have to go, darling, _he responds wearily, a few moments passing in silence. _It's alright._

They'll have to find Porthos another way.

**~oOOo~**

His son had finally strayed into the territory of 'impulsive'.

"Charles," sighed Alexandre as he drank in the sight of his youngest son standing in the foyer sopping wet, his face bloody and bruised and his hair stringy. "Come in and take off your coat."

Charles quietly obeyed, stripping himself of his jacket and overcoat, his undershirt miraculously dry despite the downpour. Alexandre fetched himself a rag from the kitchen and the warm water that was to be used for dinner from over the kitchen fire, pulling with him a chair. "Sit," he said, and his son did so wordlessly, watching his father with his one good eye, the other swollen shut- but even his opej eye was ringed in black and blue.

"Come out, Astraea," Alexandre said, and Astraea poked her little head out of the back of d'Artagnan's tunic, big ears weighed down by wetness. "Come."

Astraea didn't need to be told twice, coming forth and allowing herself to be swept up by Quasale and inspected for injuries as Alexandre wet his rag and gently pressed it against his son's wounds, wiping away some of the blood from them. "Goodness, Charles, what did you do? Duel with a prickle bush?"

His son smiled despite the pain. "No, Father. You only make that mistake once."

"Hmph," grunted Alexandre. "Hard to believe, my boy, since you can't seem to stay out of trouble for more than five minutes."

"Sorry," said d'Artagnan through a split lip. "Matthaei was trying to force himself onto Amelia, though, Father. I did what I had to." He paused. "I distracted them for long enough. May have provoked Matthaei a little too much, though."

For all his annoyance, Alexandre couldn't find it in himself to reprimand his wild son for something so noble, and chose instead to simply ruffle his hair in exasperation. "That was an honorable thing of you to do. But for God's sake, Charles, at least _win _when you're the one challenging."

**~oOOo~**

"Are you alright?" He asks her, hands coming up as if to catch her if she falls.

"I'll survive," she says, and stares at Charon's body, the golden dust littered around him. Her eyes are wide and hollow- after all, she's used to seeing things like this all the time, growing up on the streets. She's all too familiar with death. But she's never been shot- never been betrayed by a friend.

"Charon, um," Porthos says, a sudden need to show her that Charon wasn't all bad- that it was a betrayal made in haste and not hatred. "He didn't want to kill you. He loved you."

Flea blinks and look away. "So what now?" She asks softly, Lukia licking the tips of her fingers softly.

Brinley presses herself against Porthos' legs. "You could come wiv' me," he offers, and she looks back up at him, blue eyes dim.

"Or you could stay here," she says quietly. He knew she'd say that, and he knows that she knows the answer. It doesn't make the fact that the answer doesn't include the two of them together any less painful, though.

He clears his throat. "We live in different worlds, you an' me. I belong wiv' my friends...an' you wiv' yours." She glances down at Charon again, hesitating, so he continues. "You know it's doomed, this place. It's only a matter of time before the Cardinal gets 'round to destroyin' your world." He's trying to convince her, after everything, because she's the closest thing to family he has and he loves her, and he doesn't want to see her hurt when he knows he can provide what she needs. But that's not what she wants, and he knows it. "You could," he presses gently, determined still.

She looks back up at him sharply and her eyes are clearer than even he's seen, and he knows right then that he was right, and he's known what her response will be all along. She's going to break his heart, and he's going to break hers, because that's what they do. He knows.

"And that's not true of yours?" She answers softly, and he ducks his head. "Let's just enjoy what we have while we have it."

"Mm," Porthos hums quietly when he can think of nothing else to say.

"Goodbye, Porthos," she says, with a smile, reminding Porthos achingly of when they were children and the world was a simpler place. Then she steps over the golden flecks sprayed out on the floor, turns away, and just like that walks out of his life.

Brinley jumps up into his arms and tucks against his chest, like she's a mouse again instead of a badger, saying softly, "we love her, Porthos, we love her, we love her-"

It hurts too much, so much that Porthos can't take it- so he ignores her.

**~oOOo~**

"I wonder what she'll be," she said as she traced delicate patterns across his chest, splayed against his side. The morning sun made the room look pure and white, the sheets silken against his skin, the room itself suspended ethereal in time.

"What'll who be?" he asked languidly, her fingertips skimming over his shoulder, the one not tucked into his side against his ribs, against his heart. Eris was curled up at his feet, gently breathing, tail flicking back and forth, a black ink splatter against the white of the morning, sleek and beautiful.

_Call me 'beautiful' one more time, _she said lazily, purring low in her throat. _I dare you._

Athos didn't have the energy. He didn't want to shatter the calm that had descended upon them, her fingertips skimming against his skin, her voice whispering quietly in his ear. "I wonder what Amelade will settle as."

"Mm," Athos agreed. "I'm sure Thomas will be pleased either way. He's never been particularly picky over that sort of thing, and trusts Ammie."

"True enough," she responded lightly, kissing under his jaw. "The other day I heard him wishing that it'd be big and powerful like Eris."

_Doesn't suit Ammie at all, _was what he thought, though he didn't say anything. Thomas was small and innocent, full of light and love and laughter, and Athos quite thought that Ammie would settle as something that properly conveyed that- maybe a bird. Small. Sweet.

"Maybe," he said aloud instead, "he'll end up like yours. Ferocious little thing."

"Bobcats tend to be," she laughed and leaned down to look at her own daemon, who blinked up at her with yellow, slitted eyes, all curled up against Eris. "Perhaps. We'll see. He'll be so excited when he settles."

Thomas was a late settler, but it would be worth it. Athos felt it in his bones. Eris purred louder, a kitten trapped in a panther's body.

Thomas died before he saw his settling. Ammie was just golden flecks on the floor and Eris wailed as she tried to piece her back together, Athos cradling Thomas' body close and wobbling, "oh, Thomas, _Thomas_-"

**~oOOo~**

"So why do you think the Cardinal is so interested in this baby?" D'Artagnan asks as they ride quietly through the road, the top of the Church just visible over the trees. They're almost there; it won't be more than five minutes, now.

"All I know is it's our job to collect the infant and his mother and take them back to Paris," Aramis answers, Kaelyn pressed softly against his leg. They walk side by side at an unhurried pace, their horses glad for the reprieve after riding hard all day. D'Artagnan and Astraea both share their horse, her side flush with his back, but they seem to be doing their best not to acknowledge one another.

_Progress, _says Kaelyn optimistically, her ears flopping forwards.

_Hm, _Aramis says back, unconvinced.

"That's it?" d'Artagnan says dubiously, as if he expects Aramis to know more than him. And normally, that would be fair; Aramis as a seasoned Musketeer was often debriefed more thoroughly than d'Artagnan (who, admittedly, was not exactly meant to be tagging along on missions, but that was a moot point).

"That's it," says Aramis in faux cheer, Kaelyn nudging him with her nose irritably.

_Stop it, _she scolds, and sends a reassuring look at d'Artagnan.

He seems to appreciate it, because it prompts, "you're not curious?"

"Not in the least," Aramis says, doing his best to sound bored. It's nothing against d'Artagnan; it's simply that he isn't in the mood to talk, memories of Savoy too close to the surface from his nightmares last night for him to talk. Sometimes, distractions are welcome. Sometimes they make things worse.

"And this priest Duval?" D'Artagnan presses, curiosity getting the best of him. Aramis can't blame his young friend even as annoyance quietly prickles at him; it's in d'Artagnan's nature to ask questions. "What does he have to do with it all?"

"He's probably paid to look after them," Aramis can't help but dismiss. "But one thing you need to learn, d'Artagnan: don't get involved."

"But-"

Astraea shoves d'Artagnan hard, hard enough to make him wince, and he quiets abruptly, upset. Kaelyn shares a glance with Aramis and he knows what's she's thinking, and he nods his agreement, and she softly plods over and takes d'Artagnan's sleeve between her lips, pulling gently. When he's level to her, she reaches up and gently tugs at his hair, nickering softly at him.

"Don't be upset, d'Artagnan," she says, her big eyes tender. "It's alright."

It's the first time she's ever touched him, and his radiant smile is enough to banish the demons swimming through Aramis' thoughts.

**~oOOo~**

He dashes through the hallways and slams into the room, awkwardly stumbling to a stop when he catches sight of Constance and what she's doing. Horrified, Constance whirls around and demands, "don't Musketeers ever knock?!"

"My apologies," he hastens. "We're a little pressed for time." Quinnallian chatters indignantly at him from Constance's shoulder as she fumbles to close the top of her corset while balancing the baby in her arms, and Aramis thinks maybe he should help her, reaching out. "Constance-"

"Take him!" She growls, shoving the baby into his arms so fast that he barely has time to prepare himself, but as he stares at Henri his eyes soften. Henri gurgles up at him, eyes so big and blue and pure that Aramis is stricken, staring down into the baby's soft, chubby face.

"Aramis," whispers Kaelyn from his side as she peers into his arms, her ears cocked forwards in curiosity. "Aramis, she's so _small_."

For a moment Aramis has no idea who Kaelyn is talking about- but then the blanket shifts and reveals a tiny bird daemon curled up on Henri's chest, no bigger than Aramis' hand. It's a bluebird, her feathers the same shade as Henri's eyes, and she's small and fragile and breakable and beautiful.

Aramis looks back at Henri's face, elfin and smooth, and smiles softly, greeting, "hello."

**~oOOo~**

"Don't get involved," d'Artagnan says. "That's what you said."

Aramis says, "shut up, d'Artagnan."

**~oOOo~**

Her daemon's name is Eoin\- _God is gracious._ She'd laugh, if she were still Anne; Anne would find that bit of irony amusing.

Milady De Winter finds it incorrigible.

Because God has never been gracious- not to her, not to them. He made her and Eoin scrape for every foothold in the world, fight for every breath, struggle for every step. God ripped the only good thing in her life away from her and then spared her life. She would have rather died and spent the rest of her days in formless misery than live in the twisted wretchedness that she did now.

But God could not take pity- He had saved her.

_God is gracious?_ Such a disappointment.

Such _hypocrisy_.

Once upon a time, she might have found that ironic. Anne would have laughed at the irony.

Milady De Winter doesn't.

**~oOOo~**

He loved to play with her hair when she slept.

She was so beautiful- pure and untouched by the agonies of this world, quiet as she slumbered against him. Her gaze was enough to make him dizzy, her touch enough to take his breath away. He felt almost as if he needed nothing else in the world so long as she was here, by his side.

Eris sensed his train of thought, curling closer to Eoin, whose rumbling purrs vibrating through the bedding and sent a warm tremble through Athos' bones. He slept on, unaware of Eris' movement, and as she picked up her head and her huge, glowing eyes met his gaze, Athos knew.

"Olivier," she said, quietly enough so that neither Eoin nor Anne were disturbed by the raspy quality of her voice. "We- we."

He knew what she was going to say, knew what she meant. He could feel it, deep in his chest.

The next day, he proposed, and as Eoin jumped ecstatically into his arms, she said yes.

**~oOOo~**

"This is a bad idea, Athos," Eris murmurs to him.

Aramis sends Eris a look from over his shoulder. "Come now, Eris, shame on you," he scolds teasingly. "You're not afraid of a few scholarly women, now are you?"

Eris scoffs at him, clacking her beak dangerously close to his ear. Athos raises his eyebrows- for all that she does it out of affection, when she draws blood, it hurts. He would know. "Just because you're afraid does not mean that I am," she defends. "I merely meant it was a bad idea bringing _you _along; God knows you insult more women than you charm."

"Ouch," says d'Artagnan, sounding impressed.

"Eris, you wound me!" Aramis proclaims, laying a hand over his chest and sending a betrayed look d'Artagnan's way. D'Artagnan shrugs and gestures to Eris, as if to say,_ 'I'm with her'_. "Of all the cruelties!" Aramis wails, and playfully knocks d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Aramis," Athos reprimands as they come upon the scholarly house. "Enough now."

Aramis straightens, all pretenses of humor gone. Eris loses her taunting attitude, sheds it like she's molting. "This is still a bad idea," she mutters once more as Athos gets down from his horse and stalks up to the door. "Are you listening to me?"

Athos ignores her, instead opening the door and walking into the big study hall. Women are hunched over books and scattered around the room, silence reigning as they concentrate on their studies. There are bookshelves lining the walls; titles of planets and new world ideas that would make the Cardinal's head spin. He gives the Comtesse respect for so blatantly defying his will. "Does anyone here know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Fleur Baudin?"

The Comtesse stands, gliding over to him with a beautiful swan daemon at her side. She carries herself like their presence is a pesky interruption. It's meant to be intimidating, probably, but Athos is unfazed. "If you have questions, Monsieur, address them to me."

"Comtesse De Larroque," Athos says calmly, politely looking away from her swan. "I am here on behalf of the King. My name is-"

"I know who you are," she cuts in flippantly, and the audacity with which she does so takes Athos aback a moment. Okay, he's impressed; he'll admit it.

_Told you, _Eris says moodily from his shoulder.

The Comtesse continues. "I've often seen you at court and thought how handsome you are. There is a melancholy aspect to your looks that I find intriguing- but it's probably only mental vacancy." A few women around the room giggle in amusement, and Athos makes sure that his expression stays carefully neutral.

Eris does no such thing. _I __**told you**__ this was a bad idea, _she stresses louder.

_You are not helping, _Athos informs curtly, saying aloud, "I hope not. But forgive our intrusion."

"I will not forgive it," says De Larroque firmly, and Athos senses the glance that d'Artagnan sends him. "This is a place of scholarship, where women can enjoy each other's company without the crude attentions of men. What is it that you want?"

"Ah," d'Artagnan starts, and Astraea sends him a glare that strongly suggests she'd like to kick him. "We are looking for Fleur Baudin. She's run away from her family and they are- anxious." There's a lilt to his voice that belies his words, like he doesn't himself believe them.

The Comtesse hears it. "Anxious to marry her into a life of domestic slavery, no doubt," she says, and suddenly she sounds weary, as if this is something she's had to deal with time and time again. Athos has no doubt that she has. "Well, she's not here. You can go now." As she turns away, something near her breast catches Athos' eye.

"Your brooch," he says suddenly. "What does it mean?"

The Comtesse turns back to him, glancing down at it. "It is a wren," she explains coolly. "A bird that cannot be caged. A symbol of hope and freedom."

Aramis speaks up for the first time, saying, "a symbol of your own dreams and ambitions, I would imagine?"

The Comtesse's gaze locks onto him, and Kaelyn stomps the floor with her hooves, a sign of her ire. She never liked being the center of attention.

Comtesse De Larroque unabashedly stares at her, analyzing her for a prolonged moment, eyes searching. "Ah," she says finally, and a humorless smile flits across her face. "We have a romantic in our midsts." Aramis bows slightly as the ladies around them titter once more. "Observe, ladies," says De Larroque, "the remarkable phenomenon; a man of wisdom and perception."

Athos shares a dry glance with d'Artagnan, but says nothing. Astraea huffs from d'Artagnan's feet, clearly aware of what's going to happen.

Aramis smiles and Stares. "If by romantic you mean a man who gladly acknowledges the superiority of the female sex, then yes," he bows once more, keeping his eyes locked on Larroque's face. "I accept the description."

The Comtesse laughs. "Your charm won't work here. We are quite immune."

"We," Athos interrupts before Aramis can retort, "are not here to discuss your beliefs. We are looking for Fleur Baudin."

"And I've already told you that she's not here."

Athos knows this game. He plays it well. "Then you won't mind if we search your house."

"On the contrary, I mind very much," she says adamantly.

"I could insist," says Athos.

"Or you could take my word." She stalks closer, her glimmering swan daemon flittering alongside. Eris makes a noise in the back of her throat as De Larroque stares her in the face before turning her gaze back to Athos. "Am I right?" She asks quietly. "Is there an inner sadness that forms the beauty of your features? Answer me honestly, and I shall allow you to search my house."

_Olivier, _whispers Eris.

Athos answers haltingly. "We all have our deep secrets and hidden emotions, Comtesse. Allow me to keep mine to myself."

The Comtesse hums discontentedly. "Hardly an adequate answer," she says. "But I'm feeling indulgent. Follow me." She turns on her heel, dress flipping over itself in a display of grace, and glides out of the room.

"Well, if that wasn't flirting, I don't know what is," says Aramis to d'Artagnan.

"Rubbish," argues d'Artagnan, brows drawn together in confusion. "She can't stand him!"

Astraea throws her head back and begins to laugh richly at the same time Aramis ducks his head to hide his smile. "One day, d'Artagnan," he says reassuringly, "we'll sit down and- I'll explain women to you."

That's all he catches as he's finally forced to move to keep up with the Comtesse, and he feels Eris sigh from his shoulder.

_You were right, you know_, he tells her. _This was a bad idea._

_Told you._

**~oOOo~**

The Musketeer who had saved her was beautiful.

"Anne," Emery said in rebuke, curling up on her lap like he would when he was a kitten. "Don't think like that." He meant that she _couldn't _think like that, that she couldn't think as if she were _free_. Emery rubbed his forehead against her chin, purring reassuringly as he reminded her of the bitter truth. "You're a Queen now."

Anne sighed, rubbing her eyes. They were so tired. "I know," she told him. "But it's not as if I can help it. He was very handsome, you know."

Emery huffed. "I was there," he said, and she laughed lightly at his indignance, sobering again at the look he sent her. "I was there, and I know what you did."

"It was a reward," she said, looking away from him. He could always tell when she was lying. "It was a gift for protecting me so valiantly. He was even hurt, Emmy."

Her childhood name for him softened him a little- she could feel it. Yet he shook it off, placing both paws against her shoulders and levelling himself up so that they were eye to eye. "Anne," he said slowly. "I know what you did. What the significance of that was. That was-" his voice thickened. "That was the last we- you- had of home."

She stroked down the bridge of his nose when she felt his swell of sadness in her chest, smiling softly when he settled down and kneaded her dress. She pictured Aramis' beautiful dark eyes, the olive of his skin, the shadows to his face that spoke of Spain, a call to a homeland. "No," she said. "We still have a bit of home."

"You're in love with him because he saved you," Emery insisted, licking her hand gently.

However true that may have been, she still hoped that he could feel her heart beating through the cross as it rest against his.

**~oOOo~**

"What will you do now?" Athos asks. Eris shifts on his shoulder.

Comtesse De Larroque sighs and Camer's head bows where he stands at her side. Athos can only recall a handful of daemons in his life that have struck him as so beautiful. "I was thinking of opening a school," she says, and Cam nips her fingers gently, long neck curled slightly. "For the daughters of the poor..." She pauses. "I shall enjoy being a teacher." She shrugs a little, halfheartedly, and Athos knows. He knows.

"Madame De Lachapelle," Athos says instead. "Did she ever tell you anything about herself?" It's easier. Simpler. It's mostly because deep down he wants to see De Larroque again, if only to know she's alright. She doesn't want to have that sort of thing with a man, and he couldn't have anything with her- not like that- and she knows it. Eris nips sharply at his ear, the momentary pain stopping the thought before it forms.

_Thank you, _he says.

_ Anytime, _Eris answers.

Comtesse De Larroque shakes her head slightly, brows creasing. "Now that I think of it...very little," she says. When he doesn't respond, a new light reaches her eyes and she continues, "so you did know her after all."

He hesitates. "In another time," he says. "In another life."

Eris snaps her beak. Comtesse De Larroque spares her a glance and smiles, and it warms Athos to the very tips of his toes despite the chilly weather.

She steps closer and places a hand against his cheek, warm and soft where his stubble is cold and rough, her eyes glittering with concern. "Be careful, Athos," she advises, face open and caught between fear and worry. "She has the Cardinal's protection. A blow against her is a blow against him." She pauses, swallowing. Her voice has lowered in direness. "And he won't take it lightly."

Her thumb brushes over his cheek. _I want her to stay, _Eris whispers. Deep in his heart, Athos feels her ache.

Comtesse De Larroque's gaze slips to his lips, and before he can check himself he leans down as she leans up, pressing their lips together briefly. From his shoulder, Eris keens. From her knees, Cam caws mournfully, as if he too wishes they could stay.

When she pulls away, he feels raw and vulnerable. "I could have loved a man like you," she says, eyes brimming with something akin to desperation. Solemnity. She seems older for the first time.

Instead of saying what he truly believes, he responds, "it's a pity that neither of us are the marrying kind."

And she knows. She knows.

Turning away, he takes a few steps after her to see if she may need help- but of course she won't. She steps into the carriage with a finality that settles into his bones as heavy as the Dust had, and he tries not to seem like he knows what she's leaving behind when the carriage pulls away, and she looks back.

_Broken, _he thinks._ We're broken._

_ Don't say that, _Eris murmurs, nipping his ear again- affectionately this time. _Don't say that._

_ It's true._

_ I know._

**~oOOo~**

When Kaelyn had settled, his mother had been so pleased. She'd settled when he was twelve- certainly not a bad age- and his mother had been so proud at Kaelyn's elegance, beaming from ear to ear when he'd come to shyly tell her that this was what Kaelyn was.

"Oh, Lyn," she'd whispered, brushing gentle fingers along Kaelyn's long ears. His mother had always had pet names for everyone, but _Lyn _was the one she'd used most often. (When his mother died, the name died with her.)

At the time, though, Aramis hadn't thought Kaelyn was anything special. Sure, she was pretty- she had long legs and a thin face with huge, olive shaped eyes- but she wasn't a warrior's daemon. She wasn't fast or strong or fierce; she couldn't fly and, even if she could attack, she'd probably refuse. Kaelyn was a gentle soul who liked to avoid conflict when she could. (His joining the Musketeers' regiment was a time in their lives that they'd both be happy forgetting).

Since then, he'd learned to accept Kaelyn's nature- it wasn't as if he could deny it, after all. She was just quiet and soft and didn't like to fight, and he had to accept that. It was fine after a while- her grace balanced out his impulsiveness.

But he had been wrong about a lot of it- she was brave and good and strong and all the good of him, and he hadn't realized that until Savoy, when he'd nearly lost her.

And from then on, he was pleased, too.

**~oOOo~**

He doesn't have a daemon.

_He doesn't have a daemon._

"Where's your daemon?!" D'Artagnan snarls and Astraea's claws curl into the skin of his shoulder where she's perched. LaBarge cackles.

"You're a pretty thing," he tells Astraea, his voice like glass as his eyes narrow in wolfishness. "You've gotta be somethin' special then, to be somethin' so _pretty-_"

Astraea snarls, her teeth bared as her hackles rise. She looks vicious.

She's more terrified than she's been in her entire life, and before she can catch herself she's whispering to d'Artagnan: _he's speaking to me directly, dearhea-_

She cuts herself off with a growl but it's enough, more than enough, and something huge swells in d'Artagnan at her slip up, the slip up he's been hoping for since she skirted out of his reach all those nights ago, when she'd changed and run away, when he'd driven her away-

LaBarge laughs again, a wicked laugh, and rage like he's never known slams into d'Artagnan hard enough to send him nearly off his feet. "You burnt down my farm," he growls, all sharp edges and crooked justice, darkness creeping into his eyes. "You destroyed my property."

LaBarge's gaze flickers to Astraea, a malicious glint enters his eyes. It settles there permanently, the darkness of the devil. "And weren't it a sight," he says lowly, licking his lips as a wild grin coats his lips. "Just like all the others I burned, eh? All those daemons howling, their humans stumbling about in panic. Oh, their screams as they tried to find somethin' to settle as...I watched a little girl die as her daemon dissolved into _dust-_"

With a yowl of hatred Astraea lunges, jaws snapping against LaBarge's face as she rips at his chest with her claws, a whirlwind of snarling red as she crashes into him, rage coating her snout in blood-

"_Astraea!"_ D'Artagnan screams as golden dust bursts forth and pain lances through his chest; it's not his pain, it's hers, and that scares him, the fear permeating his blood and forcing him to leap into the skirmish, sword drawn as he desperately tries not to hit her, not to hit her, _not to hit her-_

LaBarge swings himself around and dodges, grabbing the cloak from the back of his chair and setting it aflame, disregarding Astraea's snarling form as best as he can as he whips the cape around and tries to hit d'Artagnan with it, who leaps backwards and barely manages to avoid being burnt. Sucking in a breath he lunges forward and nicks LaBarge's side, Astraea providing ample distraction; LaBarge roars in pain and rears in retreat, finally growing tired of Astraea's struggling and seizing her about the neck, squeezing with all his strength and cutting off her air-

D'Artagnan crumbles to his knees, white hot pain lacing itself into his skin as his air supply promptly vanishes too, caught by the throat, pain that he's never known sparking in the center of his chest and throbbing out into his limbs, paralyzing him with agony-

"Astraea-" he chokes, flailing to bring his sword in front of him, LaBarge grinning with all his teeth as Astraea whimpers for air, and LaBarge is killing him, killing him-

Cackling madly, LaBarge makes a dismissive noise deep in throat and tosses Astraea aside like she's a piece of trash from the streets and she slams into the wall with a soft yelp, thudding once she hits the floor. She doesn't move again.

D'Artagnan swallows frantic gasps of air, coughing as the vice around his windpipe eases, the sharp sting it leaves behind too real at the back of his throat, violation too high in his chest. LaBarge snarls as he latches onto the front of d'Artagnan's jacket, hauling him off the ground and dragging him closer so that they're nose to nose.

"You're a coward, boy," LaBarge says, his rancid breath leaving scorching trails of goosebumps along d'Artagnan's skin. "And you're goin' to die like one."

He must've picked up d'Artagnan rapier at some point because he presses it to d'Artagnan's stomach now, presses-

There's a screeching war-cry and a flash of feathers and Eris is slamming into LaBarge's face, her talons ripping, _ripping_, and LaBarge is screaming as he desperately tries to fling her away-

"_Eris!" _D'Artagnan wails as Athos picks him up and _fights _to drag him from the room because there is no way d'Artagnan is leaving Astraea, not now, not after everything, not after what they've been through, not after all the work they've gone through to keep themselves going so he's clawing, tearing at Athos' hands around his chest because he _refuses _to lose her- "Eris please, save her Eris_ please-"_

Eris hears him, wailing at the top of her lungs as she lets LaBarge stumble away and tear at his bloody eyes, her wings bearing her into flight; gentle, blood slicked talons wrap around Astraea's middle, and d'Artagnan finally allows Athos to pull him from the room as Eris flies overhead with Astraea safely in her grip.

When they're finally far enough from the commotion Eris sets Astraea down, and d'Artagnan breaks free of Athos' hold and rushes to her, cradling her broken golden body close, keening,"oh, _oh-_ Astraea hang on, don't leave me, _don't leave me-"_

**~oOOo~**

Athos crouches low over d'Artagnan's hitching shoulders as he cradles Astraea close, tears rolling down his nose, his hands brushing gently over her dust-streaked form. Eris makes a noise low in her throat and her wings rustle, as if she wants to tuck d'Artagnan under them but doesn't know if she'll be welcomed.

Athos gently pries d'Artagnan's hands away from his daemon, and he only hesitates slightly as he gently places his hands on her wounds, disregarding the law completely. He wets his lips at the emotion that bursts forth, at the blasphemy of the action he's just committed, and gently (oh, so gently) pulls her to his chest and runs his hand over her ears, standing as he cradles her closer. D'Artagnan, numb, follows so closely behind that he could be Athos' shadow.

Eris perches on d'Artagnan's shoulder and throws her wing out over his head, like he's a fledgling.

They walk in silence, Athos in the lead and d'Artagnan disturbingly compliant behind him, and if Astraea's breath hitches as she softly licks his thumb in thanks, they don't say anything to each other.

Eris nips d'Artagnan's ear.

**~oOOo~**

It wasn't that he wanted to take over the throne.

No, no. That would be foolish- too gaudy for him. He played on the sidelines quietly, surely. Life as a whole was one universal chess game: he had to be careful about which pieces he sacrificed and which he kept close, had to choose wisely which he gave away and which he treasured. It was a delicate balance.

The new Queen of France was a child- the King even more so, though Richelieu had expected and prepared for that. But the Queen was a wildcard, much too opinionated for a woman of the Court, much less one of nobility. He would have to keep an eye on her. A careful watch.

He liked to think of himself as the Queen of the chessboard- the one who held all possible moves. Yet she, too, held that title.

When Miladyhad come to him, battered, bruised and betrayed, her bobcat daemon coming apart at the seams, he couldn't help but admire her potential. She understood Dust like no one else but he did. She understood the fragility of their world- the _frailty _of it. The idea that Dust wasn't dust, it was something more, something important, something malleable. She understood_. Quite _well.

He would have offered to have her daemon removed- he could see it, the _want_, in her eyes. But the procedure was too risky for such a valuable asset. Were it to go wrong, he would lose her- and he couldn't lose the best pawn on the board. Intercision was dangerous business.

So he watched her suffer in silence, his darling beside him, perched on his shoulder day by day despite being a cat and not a bird. He thought, perhaps, she should change into one- but no. That would have been too telling, after all these years as a cat- too unnerving for those who knew him. It would expose him. So his darling suffered in silence, too.

_One foot in the grave already._

Richelieu knew how to prepare for when he stepped all the way in.

**~oOOo~**

"There's a good boy," d'Artagnan murmured as he stroked the horse's nose, dislodging some lingering raindrops. Outside the barn the storm still raged, the wind whistling through the cracks in the wood, but it was warm and dry for the horses. They'd be rested for the remainder of the journey in the morning.

Astraea poked her head out of his tunic in relief, gently using her claws to climb her way to his shoulder. She shook her head viciously, water flying about as her ears flopped wetly against both sides of her head Then, she began attempting to dry herself, licking her paws and her coat like a cat would to clean itself, impressively remaining balanced on d'Artagnan's shoulder as she did so.

Lifting her head as she deemed dryness impossible, Astraea's eyes met a pair of figures approaching from the darkest corner, their dog daemons growling menacingly from their sides-

"D'Artagnan!" She screeched and he was unsheathing his sword in the blink of an eye, so fast he dislodged her and she tumbled from his shoulder, hitting the ground hard with a soft yelp. D'Artagnan leapt in front of her as one of the dog daemons snapped his jaws, nearly snatching her by the stomach and crunching her spine, and as d'Artagnan swung himself around he managed to grab and twist one of the attacker's arms so that the gun he was clutching misfired and hit his partner, who slammed into one of the stalls with a loud bang. The dog daemon that had been threatening her burst into dust and Astraea ran, scurrying up d'Artagnan's leg just as the other snarling dog daemon nearly clamped his teeth down on her tail.

D'Artagnan growled at the other man, his sword clenched in his hand, muscles coiling and prepared to spring-

And yet the other man turned on his heel and fled, his dog daemon scampering after him, and d'Artagnan grabbed her swiftly from his shoulder and held her securely in his arms as he pursued, taking them both out into the pouring rain once again. The foul man who fled managed to pull himself up onto a horse and their party ran, their retreating backs a mockery.

Astraea panted, heaving desperately to catch her breath, burying her face into d'Artagnan's neck for comfort and whispering, "he almost got me, he almost got me, his daemon attacked me-"

"Shh," d'Artagnan said softly, running his hand through the downy fur at the top of her head, his ire not forgotten but pushed away as concern quickly replaced it. "Shh, it's alright, we're- we're safe."

Gritting his teeth, he flung down the sword that he'd stolen- useless now that there was no one to fight- and turned, his father's approaching figure easy to make out despite the darkness. Shame welled quickly in the hollow of d'Artagnan's throat, nearly preventing him from speaking.

"I couldn't stop them," he confessed, a huge swell of annoyance at himself crashing over him like a tidal wave as he turned, still watching their retreating forms vanish into the night. Astraea licked the side of his neck, still tucked against his chest.

D'Artagnan sensed his father coming up beside him, steeled himself for when he would be told to simply let it go, that carrying out their errand was more important, that he need not be so rash-

But his father fell to his knees before such lecture came, gasping for air as he looked to his son, and d'Artagnan's dismissal was immediately forgotten as he dropped Astraea and crumpled to his knees, slipping one arm under his father's head to support it and the other going to the side Alexandre was clutching. There was blood, runny in the rain but there, a bullet wound-

"Father,_ FATHER!"_ A hand came to cradle his father's cheek, to force Alexandre to look at him, look at him-

"Father-" shakily, shakily as d'Artagnan's trembling hand reached down to cover the bullet wound again, to keep his father's blood inside his body, but it was pooling around them, the rain making it run-

"Athos," Alexandre gasped, and raindrops clung to his eyelashes, and his eyes stared at the murky sky, past his son. From d'Artagnan's side Astraea was keening, her tail encircling Quasale as her feathers dissolved, dust swirling with the red on the cobble and making a portrait of red and gold and rain.

D'Artagnan choked on a sob, wobbling, "please-"

"Athos…" But his father was unable to say more, and with a parting, lasting exhale, Alexandre stared at the sky, past his son, and left him.

With a parting, mournful cry, Quasale began to unravel like a quilt with a pulled thread, golden dust leaking away and shimmering in the nonexistent light as she reached towards his father in vain, and d'Artagnan desperately disobeyed his instincts and lifted her, placing her so she settled right over the still bleeding bullet wound-

And she was gone.

"Oh," d'Artagnan said, eyes wide as he stared down at his father, the dust that used to be his beloved daemon sprinkled all around, beginning to run- "oh-"

And there was Astraea, hunched in on herself beside him, her own heart breaking and something huge, something huge and distinct and different rippling through her, overwhelming her-

And then it was over, and it was still the two of them, and d'Artagnan stared at her with wide, horrified eyes, his hands beginning to tremble.

"Stop looking at me like that," she demanded shakily, clumsy as she stood. "Stop it, _stop it!"_

D'Artagnan couldn't seem to listen, still staring at her with his terror-filled expression and Astraea looked down at the cobbles to avoid his gaze, catching her own reflection, watching it mix with the swirl of gold and red and rain and now the orange of her coat-

She snarled and ripped away from him, going as far as she could until an almighty, painful tug in her chest forced her to stop, and d'Artagnan was calling her name, reaching for her, reaching, "dear-"

She snapped at his fingers, dodged him so he could not touch her until he grew too tired to continue trying, and ignored him.

**~oOOo~**

Tréville goes down hard, and d'Artagnan's nervousness peaks into anger the moment LaBarge slams down on the socket of the Captain's dominant arm and nearly cripples Tréville for the rest of his life.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan protests loudly, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword.

"I'm going to kill him," Astraea rumbles, hackles rising, and the anger is all of a sudden roaring through him like a wave and he knows, knows that this is it, this is it-

His anger makes his blood boil and makes him want to move, want to rip and tear and attack, but he forces himself to calm as he paces to and fro and tries to settle the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fellow onlookers have launched into action already, engaging in combat as Tréville's daemon Eliah hisses at LaBarge from where she's standing protectively over Tréville's body.

Tréville, struggling to stand, shouts, "What are you doing?!"

Astraea doesn't hesitate to respond, so casually breaking taboo when she barks back, "saving your life!" She snarls and launches herself at the daemon trying to ambush Eliah, clawing and snapping at them when they get too close. Astraea is taking out all the anger d'Artagnan cannot, and it's just enough to allow d'Artagnan to focus, prowling at the edges of the battle as his eyes focus only on LaBarge, his expression darkening.

"What are you doing?!" Astraea hisses, nipping at his fingers agitatedly. "Were you even paying attention?! You saw what he did to Tréville-"

"Biding my time," d'Artagnan answers steadily, his gaze unwavering. The anger that simmers does not make him irrational like it has so many times in the past. He's found a balance in himself somehow.

Astraea stares at him and must feel the change in him too; she's startled into speechlessness. Out of the two of them, she's always been the more impulsive.

"Oh," she says, and something between them shifts as her own nature changes, like she has a newfound respect for him. She hovers around his knees, sizing LaBarge up. Her eyes are like stone.

It seems as though the King has finally had enough, because he rises and commandsin a long, drawn out breath, _"stop!"_ Obediently, the fighting ceases, the Musketeers and Red Guards eyeing each other from opposite ends of the arena. "Your man broke the rules, Cardinal," the King continues, and the Cardinal has the moment to look offended before the King goes on. "Captain Tréville may nominate another champion if he wishes."

Athos helps the Captain stand, and d'Artagnan hovers a little ways off, simply giving the Captain a look. He is ready. He feels it on his bones.

Tréville sighs and glances at Eliah, and they silently communicate to each other. Tréville says something that makes Eliah chuckle in the low, scratchy way that is particular to cats, and they seem to come to a mutual agreement.

Tréville meets the eyes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and looks up. "I nominate d'Artagnan to take my place," he proclaims, and LaBarge breaks out into mocking laughter.

Astraea bristles, and d'Artagnan nudges her gently to quiet her. It is a testament to her newfound understanding of him how quickly she listens, tucking away her anger in order to diplomatically say, "I'll go for the eyes, then, shall I?"

"No," d'Artagnan says, shaking his head. "A man can't survive without a daemon, Astraea. Find his daemon."

"It must be hidden away," she murmurs, her tail curling around his leg like it would when she was a fennec. It's not the same, and that's what makes it wonderful. D'Artagnan finally understands. "I'll have to draw it out, or find it."

"You can do it."

"I know."

Both of them go quiet but their skin vibrates, hyper aware of each other like they've never been before. They are what they're meant to be.

LaBarge is still chuckling when he steals a sword from a nearby soldier's scabbard. It's a showy display, what he's declaring, and it makes him look cocky and stupid rather than what d'Artagnan once thought would look confident and unconcerned. "My old friend from th' Bastille!" He proclaims joyfully, a wolfish smile sitting on his lips. "You look even more pathetic in th' daylight."

"Go for his daemon's throat," d'Artagnan says quietly, and Astraea stretches dangerously, muscles coiling.

"I will," she promises, direwolf as she bares her teeth.

"I'm going to enjoy this," LaBarge says, licking his front teeth as well, curling his lips back at Astraea, his eyes flickering to d'Artagnan.

"Somehow I doubt it," d'Artagnan says steadily, sure.

He's the one who moves first, lunging forward with his sword and parrying quickly as LaBarge brings down his own, and he gasps involuntarily when he's elbowed in the back and shoved to the ground. Astraea dances around LaBarge's legs, hissing and nipping when she finds a chance to attack around their swinging blades, smart enough to avoid them as best she can. D'Artagnan manages a swipe to LaBarge's calf and regains his feet, bouncing a little, balancing.

"Is that the best you got?" LaBarge asks in pseudo disbelief, lips wrenching into a snarl as d'Artagnan throws himself forward and back into the fight, Astraea hissing as she leaps forward too. LaBarge and d'Artagnan collide in a clash of sparks, gripping each other's blades as they push against one another, d'Artagnan struggling to remain upright as LaBarge leans his full weight onto his sword, the blade dangerously close to d'Artagnan's face-

Astraea's teeth clamp down on LaBarge's wrist, her claws creating puncture wounds all along his arm as she scratches at whatever skin she can reach; it allows d'Artagnan to duck under LaBarge's sword and slash him sharply across the middle. LaBarge's hand jerks instinctively as d'Artagnan spins away, his arm arcing down into a swipe and effectively throwing Astraea a good six feet, and in the same moment nearly takes d'Artagnan's arm off. Glancing at the rip in his jacket, d'Artagnan takes a deep breath to force down the raging thing inside him, ignoring the flash of pain that ignites his organs when Astraea hits the ground and yelps softly. He glares at LaBarge and prepares himself, half-watching in his peripheral vision as Astraea pushes herself to her feet.

"I wish I could remember burning down your farm," LaBarge taunts, the gleam of madness on his face that is suddenly so clear to d'Artagnan that it nearly takes his breath away. "It would make killin' you a lot sweeter!"

D'Artagnan forces himself to pause, and Astraea meets his eyes. _I'm ready, _she says and is clearly waiting for some sort of diversion, so d'Artagnan once more flings himself forward, parrying and riposting when LaBarge blocks his attacks. D'Artagnan tries not to lose his balance when he's kicked viciously in the chest.

Astraea slinks forward, bushy tail lashing as she leaps, her muzzle slamming into LaBarge's vest pocket; she falls and hits the ground hard but rolls with the impact, and when she rights herself she's holding a squirming, squealing thing between her jaws. Her eyes shine in victory.

Immediately LaBarge stutters, his movements sloppy as he goes to attack, and Astraea grins a wolf's grin as she bites down a little harder, golden dust beginning to stream from her mouth. D'Artagnan grins an identical grin of triumph, ignoring the thing that tells him killing someone's daemon would be wrong as he looks LaBarge in the face as if to say, _it's over._

LaBarge, however, doesn't seem defeated; instead, a glint enters his eyes that immediately sets d'Artagnan on edge. "Is that the best you've got, boy?"

Astraea's jaws are pried open by whatever it is that's clamped within them, the small rodent daemon dropping from her mouth. It begins to contort in a morbid, broken sort of way, and d'Artagnan watches in horror as it grows and swells into something enormous, bones crackling as it settles into a huge, snarling bear.

Daemons that don't settle- they're wrong. They're _wrong_. They're disconnected and broken, reflect things like insanity and madness and the inability to control oneself, and LaBarge's unsettled daemon _suits_ him, as wrong as it is.

"Astraea!" D'Artagnan says sharply, his eyes remaining trained on LaBarge as he warns, "don't."

Astraea laughs a rich, lovely laugh. "You know me, Charles," she says back, bending like she's battle ready. "I never do as I'm told."

And then, with a ferocious snarl, she attacks the bear's face straight on, clawing and snapping and ripping at his eyes, golden dust immediately beginning to stream from them in rivulets that vaguely resemble tears.

For a moment, both d'Artagnan and LaBarge are stunned, their weapons dropping in shock as they stand side by side, their quarrel forgotten as they watch the fight that's unfolding before them. Then moment passes like it's molasses; LaBarge and d'Artagnan are both jerked from their surprise and viciously thrown back into the the recommencing skirmish without preamble. Both humans are affected by their daemon's actions: LaBarge hesitates minutely as d'Artagnan's determination reaches a fever pitch in his chest, golden dust erupting all around them, creating a film that separates the four of them from the rest of the world.

In the end LaBarge simply gives up on his sword, throwing it to the ground and reaching towards the Gascon with stained, greedy hands, like he's going to grasp d'Artagnan by the throat and bodily break him.

D'Artagnan doesn't give him the chance. Instead, the younger man slips from LaBarge's grasp as easily as he would have were he water. He grasps LaBarge by the shoulder and pivots, flipping their bodies, and with a grunt of effort wrenches his sword up and stabs through LaBarge's stomach with a squelching, wet sound, gritting his teeth as LaBarge bends double and stumbles into him, his voice pitched low as he whispers in LaBarge's ear.

"_That's for the people of Gascony."_

And he lets LaBarge fall.

LaBarge's daemon does not explode into a million dust particles like a common daemon might upon their human's death, nor does it unravel and stream off like Alexandre's did. It simply freezes where it stands, quiet surprise flickering across its face before its legs give out and it collapses to the ground, fazing into dust before impact.

There's an immediate lull of quiet in the absence of singing metal, a dip in time when d'Artagnan just stands. Astraea comes trotting back to d'Artagnan's side, covered in LaBarge's daemon's dust, licking her chops. D'Artagnan looks down at her.

"Hello, dear one," he says to her, and she looks up at him.

"Hello," she says, and it's like they're meeting one another again for the first time, something simple and heavy and right settling deep in his chest, like a bone that had been slotted out of place finally aligning.

The moment passes but the feeling sticks, reassuringly familiar from a time long ago, and though he and Astraea stand apart he feels closer to her than he has since his father died.

"Bravo, d'Artagnan," the King says and delightedly announces, "I hereby declare the Musketeer regiment the winners!" Then he begins clapping, the crowd falteringly following suit, perhaps off-put by the dead man lying face down in the middle of the arena.

The Inseparables approach, Eris soaring off of Athos' shoulder to perch on d'Artagnan's, nipping his ear. "You did well," she tells him, casually ignoring the taboo as she speaks and touches him, and Astraea laughs again, loud and merry as she skips around Athos' legs.

Eris swoops back to Athos' shoulder after a moment, apparently suddenly aware that she's making a scene by touching d'Artagnan so flippantly, though no one really seems to be paying attention and instead are listening to the King as he explains that the reward money is returning to the palace treasury. That's alright. D'Artagnan realizes now that he needs it very little.

The King slides down from his seat, striding towards d'Artagnan with his daemon in his arms; d'Artagnan bows, and he's amused when Astraea's tail swishes regally as she follows. Straightening, d'Artagnan and Astraea meet the King's gaze head on, sure of themselves, comforted.

Louis, when he speaks, sounds curiously serious. "You defended your Captain with great heroism today. I admire loyalty more than any other virtue." A flickering hope lights in d'Artagnan's chest that roars to life when the King adds, "please kneel."

So shocked is he that for a moment, he remains where he is, and Astraea irritably restrains from nipping at his fingers in impatience.

Athos advises wryly, "get on your knees before he changes his mind."

D'Artagnan, too awed to do anything but, lowers himself to his knees, face bowed. He's waited his whole life for this; he's about to honor his father's name, about to fulfill the dream he's had since he was a boy. Astraea, for once equally as speechless, bows once again for lack of anything else to do.

"I hereby commission you into my regiment of Musketeers. May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today."

D'Artagnan rises, and is overwhelmed.

It's Astraea who moves first with a delighted cry, dancing over to Kaelyn and rubbing herself all along the other daemon's legs, purring like she's a kitten and not a fox. Without direction d'Artagnan turns and embraces Aramis, falling into waiting arms in astonished disbelief, the pauldron on his shoulder burning as he moves and hugs Porthos, who claps him proudly on the back and chuckles along with him in joy, Brinley and Astraea engaging in playful swats at their feet.

With Astraea too occupied to greet Eris, d'Artagnan loses his nerve and ends up merely shaking Athos' hand, but it's enough, and Athos smiles a genuine, bright smile and it's so much, it means so much.

"Well done, d'Artagnan," Tréville says, something like fondness shining in his eyes when he continues, "I'm proud to have you under my command." D'Artagnan knows he means it, and it's almost too much once more, but thankfully Astraea is still at his side and doesn't try to rub against Eliah as d'Artagnan grabs Tréville's hand.

"Thank you," he says breathlessly, disbelievingly still. "Thank you so much."

Astraea laughs again, a joyous laugh, and leaps into d'Artagnan's arms, and licks his cheek.

"Hello, dear one," she says, and her ears flatten in something akin to shyness, and d'Artagnan is all at once inexplicably aware that he loves her beyond words, and he laughs too, and smiles a radiant smile.

"Hello," he says, and he means _welcome home._

* * *

D'Artagnan- Astraea: "star"; Astraea was the Greek goddess of justice and innocence, now the constellation Virgo. Originally a fennec fox that changed into a red fox. Foxes represent agility, quick thinking, cleverness, and perseverance. Negatively, foxes represent deception, stubbornness, and the refusal to acknowledge mistakes.

Porthos- Brinley: "Burnt meadow"; a honey badger. Honey badgers represent determination, strong will, independence and confidence. Negatively, badgers represent violence, aggression, and the inability to let down defenses.

Aramis- Kaelyn: "purity"; a white-tailed deer. Deer represent grace, swiftness, mercy, watchfulness, and spirituality. Negatively deer represent timidness, fear, and vulnerability.

Athos- Eris: "strife". Eris was the Greek Goddess of Discordia, latin for "discord"; a peregrine falcon. Falcons represent determination, freedom, intensity, and clearness of sight. Negatively falcons represent arrogance and superiority.

Constance- Quinn: "wise". A river otter. Otters represent joy, agility, energy, creativity, devotion and friendship. Negatively, otters represent inability to stand up for your beliefs and a willingness to simply 'go with the flow'.

Milady- Eoin (o-wen): "God is gracious". A bobcat. Bobcats represent cunning, intellect, awareness, and strategy. Negatively they represent isolation, manipulation, and distance between relationships.

Queen Anne- Emery: "brave". An ocelot. Ocelots represent the ability to see clearly, healing, connections with nature and other beings that go unseen by other animals, the ability to exist in two places at once, friendship, and fierceness. Negatively, ocelots represent solitude.

Alexandre d'Artagnan- Quasale: A finch. Finch represent joy, variety, protectiveness, appreciation, honoring resources, and enjoying the journey.

Treville- Eliah_:_ A cougar. Cougars represent power, intuition, resolve, leadership and assertiveness, as well as protective and quick to attack (much like a mother would when cubs were threatened). Negatively, cougars represent anger and aggressiveness.

Vadim- Narnicali: A coyote. Coyotes often symbolize jokesters and represent things like adaptability. They cause chaos, illusion that only they can reveal the truth to, and they have a paradoxical nature. They also represent the ability to play your resources.

Marsac- Malikha: From a lion to a jackal. Lions represent wisdom, power, dignity, courage, and justice; negatively, they represent ferocity and domination. Jackals are primarily associated with desolation, but can also symbolize mistrust.

**Additional Daemons:**

Flea- Lukia: A Labrador. Labradors represent acceptance, emotional healing, empathy, compassion, adaptability, strength, devotion, and versatility.

Comtesse De Larroque- Camer: A white crane. Primarily they represent freedom and grace.

King Louis- Faqueza: "Weakness". A puffin. I have no reason in making Louis' daemon a puffin except that to me, it vaguely looks like him.

Thomas- Amelade: Amelade would have settled as a robin. Robins represent joy, hope, renewal, happiness, contentment, rejuvenation, new beginnings, and a bright future.

* * *

_Disclaimer: The idea of daemons changing is not my own- that belongs to the lovely **Zihna**, who wrote a daemon AU for the Walking Dead over on AO3 which, admittedly, is probably the best thing in all of literature that I have ever read. I'm serious. If you'd like to check them out, the story is called I followed fires, and there are a few of them in the series that they've made. It's fantastic, and if you're a walking dead fan, I strongly suggest it._

_Alright everyone, that's it! I'm not going to lie, this whole thing is abound with symbolism and meaning, and I realize now that **sometimes y'all don't think I enjoy the huge long reviews where you explain your analysis or your points of view on things**. I'm going to tell you that **I am always flattered and amazed when you take the time out to analyze my work, and always thankful for any sort of review**. I absolutely love reading your interpretations of my writing and what you think, so you make that review as long as you want! Don't hold back! I enjoy every word._

_Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please drop me a comment on your thoughts!_


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